Magic is Might
by complex-manifold
Summary: Alternate timeline in which Voldemort teaches Defence. After an unexplained death too many, even Hogwarts mightn't be so safe anymore - the perfect climate for awakening political sensibilities...
1. The War Isn't Over

**Author's Note: **Well, I'm trying something a bit different with this. A take on how terrible the first war could have been with Voldemort even more influent than he was, from the POV of someone who's neither a Death Eater nor from the OotP. Does not end quite as bad as the premise might make you think. Commentary and critique much appreciated, as I don't usually write OC's in novel-length works like that.

Thanks for reading !

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 1<strong>

**The War Isn't Over **

A masked, cloaked figure strode through busy streets, hiding itself in dark corners, tall shadows, and mindless gazes of pedestrians in the evening. It stood watching at intersections, as if from the nearest car would emerge someone it had been expecting - its look, behind the mask, was almost disappointed whenever it stopped observing and changed position. Reaching a particularly difficult crossing, it sat down, watched cars pass by for a while, noticeably twitching when one hooted. On the other side of the road, another strange shadow moved and stretched, and stayed still. It was almost eight o'clock; it would be soon.

"You getting back from a party ?"

The figure tensed, and turned to face the intruder. He was so very young, a lanky teenager wearing a bright-coloured shirt, his hair falling loose over his face. Is he alone ? wondered the cloaked stranger. Go away, go away, it chanted in its head. Go away, stupid young boy, and never come back...

"I'd swear I've seen you just across the street," continued the teenager. "Mask and all. You two part of the same lot ?"

Remaining silent, the black figure touched its wand on the inside of its cloak. Two minutes left.

"You all right ?"

"Maybe he's too drunk to answer, mate," said another teenager, who looked younger with his large eyes and pale blond curls. "Pretty early for that, but you know, with them," and he jerked his head towards the hunched stranger.

One minute. The teenagers departed, commenting this odd encounter.

They crossed the street just as a blue car emerged in the horizon.

And sped faster. Zero. And faster.

The figure had already left its post, and it slithered along a nearby alley: it would not see the frenzied blue vehicle hitting two others, nor hear the screams of the two boys and the sounds of broken glass. Six Muggles down, it thought. Too many to go.

* * *

><p>"Stupefy !"<p>

At once Cal's world went red, then ceased to exist.

When he was wakened only minutes after he fell in what he imagined to be a very inelegant heap of robes at Bella's feet, looked around him and identified the green glow of Slytherin's common room under the lake, Bella and Rodolphus were sitting and laughing next to him.

"And then I aimed," said Bella, "and he looked so very confused like a baby !"

Was that what he had looked like to them ?

"And then, then ?"enquired Rodolphus, his tone higher, more eager.

"Then the big duffer fell to the ground and I said 'Ooh, Weasley, I hadn't seen you !' and this silly girl ran at me... you had to see her face... I'm duelling her next Saturday."

The next Saturday, Cal would be taking a path he knew well along the old corridors of the castle, past the portrait of Magdalene Malkin, past the silent watching suits of armour, past a winding staircase that seemed never to bring him quite at the same place, until he arrived in front of an unornated door; and there he would wait for it to open on its own and meet his father to discuss his Defence Against the Dark Arts performance, or rather lack thereof. And unlike Bella, Cal had no innate ability (or, once he admitted it to himself, only within his most private thoughts, affinity) for duelling.

Phineas Nigellus Black, his illustrious ancestor, had also taught his own children, Cal remembered; and while Phineas did not hold his father in the highest esteem, he had been no fonder of the young or the ignorant in his time. The thought that his ordeal was almost a family tradition, a legacy of sorts, was comforting.

But for the moment Cal was in the safety of his common room, lying down near Bella and Rodolphus, who carried on without a thought for him, as if he might as well have been dead. He supposed it had been kind of them to bring his body back after the duel. Likely an idea of Andromeda's.

"Where's Andie ?" he asked, sitting up, in a lazy tone. As if he'd merely been napping, and not defeated at all.

"Patrol," answered Rodolphus. There was something in the way he wrinkled his nose that suggested he did not like breaching the subject. "First of the year. With Malfoy."

"I'd forgotten they were prefects. Really, Malfoy ? Surely there was a better choice."

"Of course there was," said Bellatrix. "It should've been us."

"Well, maybe they thought Andromeda's marks were better." It was untrue, of course: Bellatrix wasn't the best pupil in the class, but she was better than Andromeda and him combined, and she certainly took pride in it. "Maybe Malfoy's father has to buy his pride as he does everything else," he snickered.

"Maybe Dumbledore is a Muggle-loving corrupted old coot who thinks his agenda is more important than our merit - wait, that much is true... the Professor said so... that he imposed Andie and Malfoy, that he thought they'd be more cooperative..." Cal frowned.

Bella always called his father 'the Professor', even as his mother had always been 'Aunt Electra' - doubtless because his knowledge and competence had made a lasting impression on her. Cal only wished she could keep her admiration to herself. Wasn't Rodolphus ever tired ?

Rodolphus did look bothered these days. Ordinarily he confided in Cal - he had told about watching Carina Peters practice Quidditch even though she was a half-blood, and about how he did Bellatrix's Transfiguration essays (Cal had not been surprised), and his parents fighting, and even that one time in third year when he had bought himself a pet rat and brought it to Hogwarts in secret. Now he seemed to be perpetually keeping worries close to him like a cloak, fastened against his throat, growing tighter as he grew up.

Bella was never bothered. If they were born to rule the world, it was Bellatrix alone who was made for it; Bellatrix who claimed her dues and settled her disputes as her very own one-woman army.

After breakfast on Saturday, Cal left his copy of the Daily Prophet lying in his common room and took off for his appointment. He was never late, but it wouldn't do to be early, either, and so Cal carefully timed his steps. He hadn't seen Bellatrix or Andromeda, and Rodolphus had seemed much happier at breakfast, chattering on about the upcoming Quidditch season: Cal hoped it meant that whatever trouble had clouded his mood before had now passed.

Before knocking on the door, he straightened his robes and back, tucked back his hair and his smile; but he was not nearly done when a soft voice beckoned him in.

"I am disappointed in your understanding of wizarding duels," he started. Cal did not sit, speak, or move at all. "You seem to believe duels to be neat arrangements between wizards, conversations, as it were, where the wizard who speaks last wins. This could not be further from the truth. Duelling - duelling with the Dark Arts - is more of an argument: what matters is not the strength or variety of your attacks, but the timing and emotion behind them, and the adversary you have. Sit down, Callidus."

Cal took a seat on a plain, but old chair, and a long look at the room - devoid of ornaments or photographs, but lined with bookcases containing volumes and scrolls of all shapes and sizes, oozing their strange scent into the air, and lastly at his father himself, whose face always seemed too young for the ambient austerity.

"How many official duels have you taken part in this term ?"

"Five, sir."

"I take it you lost."

"I won once, against Adalbert Merryweather."

"Tell me," said his teacher, and he started caressing the side of a nearby book whose title Cal could not make out. "What do you think of when you cast a spell ?"

"Well, how to do it, mostly. The movement, and the words, the way we are taught. I try to focus on my goal and the way to get there."

"I see." There was a gleam in his eyes; for a moment Cal thought his expression almost amused. "In a real situation, you should think about your opponent - observe when they feel, what they fear, why they fail. Do not feel or fear for them." His tone grew even softer. "You must first see weakness or rashness, then protect yourself, then attack. Take comfort in the other's weakness more than in your strength."

"I will try, sir."

"This is O.W.L. year. What Professor Slughorn might have told you about your options is irrelevant: you will continue with the Dark Arts class until seventh year. Now, I have many better ways to fill my time, yet you need more experience to even pass the practical. However much... enthusiasm Miss Black may have, she cannot be expected to teach you." Much as Cal would have liked to say it didn't matter, being compared to Bellatrix again stung.

At once he composed himself: he had almost stopped paying attention.

"- first of them Sunday next, then once every two Sundays," continued his father. "More often, if you do not do better in class. I am certain I can find a way to - motivate you." There was a moment's silence as an intent gaze met Cal's; he offered no resistance, and felt strangely examined.

"You may leave."

"Father ?" His tone grew hesitant, and he forced himself to smile, to look more pleasant.

"Professor," corrected the teacher. "Yes ?"

"Did you ever lose a duel ?"

"No," he answered. "But you have no need to do as well. The standards have always been low, and you come from a powerfully magical background: it should not be difficult."

Hogwarts' corridors rang with the laughter of his schoolmates, but as he turned around the second floor to take another flight of stairs, Cal heard the sounds morph into shouts and stern voices. There were altercations every day, some more serious than others, but this time, he had recognised Bellatrix's voice.

Please tell me she hasn't turned anyone into a pig, he thought. Or worse, a dead pig.

A statue of a hag looked on the scene disapprovingly. Farther down the corridor, Professor McGonagall stood, arms crossed, listening to the confused cacophony of girls' explanations. Bella was copiously insulting a short redhead, who waved her wand in large circles in the air; near them, a scrawny boy stared at the redheaded girl's back from a distance, and fourth-year Evan Rosier, Bella's cousin, tried to keep up with the pace of her verbal abuse.

"Miss Prewett, calm down," said McGonagall. She looked like a bothered cat with her eyes narrowed behind her glasses. "Miss Black, detention Wednesday. Did you call one of my students a 'fat squealing cow' and suggest that she 'spawn another brood' of the 'tainted traitors in rags' that are Mr Weasley's family ?"

At these words Cal realised that the scrawny boy did indeed sport the Weasley mop of bright red hair, that his face complemented so well in this instant.

"They were sneaking out together, Professor," said Rosier. "Don't tell me that wasn't for an inappropriate purpose. She ambushed Bellatrix when we passed them -"

"She said she wanted a duel, you stinking liar ! She'd attacked Arthur twice this week !" shrieked Prewett, sparks flying out of her wand.

"You wish I'd lower myself to duel you or the filthy company you keep, Prewett," replied Bella. "Do you need to wash his smell out of you when you get back to Gryffindor Tower ?"

"Two detentions, Miss Black. Miss Prewett, put your wand down immediately."

Grumbling, Prewett obeyed, not taking her burning look off Bella's face.

"Well, well," said Rosier as they retired from the scene. "Wussy Weasley lets his girlfriend defend his honour. Who'd have thought."

Down the corridor, Cal could still hear the girl's high-pitched voice fuss over Weasley's wounds, delivering on occasion a tirade on the Slytherin shrewdness. Bellatrix was holding her head high, letting her cousin's remarks wash over her, obviously well-pleased with herself.

"Bella ?" he said. She uncrossed her arms. "Nice retort." This time she gratified him with a half-smile. Putting himself in Bellatrix's good graces was something Cal had had ample time to learn in childhood.

"You should've seen her when Prof Kitty arrived," said Rosier. McGonagall was thankfully safely out of hearing: she did not find the nickname particularly amusing. "One minute she was pinning Ginger to the wall, the next she was acting offended over being attacked. I was her second, you know ? Not that she needs one."

"Stop grovelling, Evan," said Bellatrix, who had condescended to address them now that they were nearing the dungeons. "And you," she told Cal, "don't try to change the subject. I know where you were going today. And if you think you deserve better marks just because you're his son -" Cal fought back a smile at the idea of his father treating him any better than other students. Try worse, he thought. Other students can drop the class.

"Bella, he knows you're better than I am." Unfortunately.

"Don't call me Bella."

"He was offering me remedial Defence tutoring."

"I'm always good in his class ! Why don't I get private lessons ?" All her pretense of being above tantrums had now dropped, her small eyes flashing, her cheeks red.

Though Cal was taller than her, he recoiled. "Remedial lessons are, sort of, for people who get failing marks. Can you imagine failing your father's subject ?"

"Cygnus wouldn't know how to teach anything," she said bitterly. "I bet the Professor will be teaching you more than just Defence. Far greater things. Far above NEWT-level - nothing we'd ever learn here in that school."

Cal knew exactly what she meant, and indeed he supposed his father would be setting some... additional goals. But that he couldn't tell Bella, and he didn't like telling lies, so he changed subjects.

"Now, now, let's see what's new in the world," he said cheerily, looking around the common room for his Daily Prophet."Where's -"

"Right here," drawled Lucius Malfoy from a sofa he was spread on, beside his best friend and chief executioner, Henry Crabbe. "You might want to watch yourself, Bellatrix." He paused. "Not even Blacks are above the law. What with current events..." Malfoy's thin lips were stretched in a lazy smile. Crabbe gave a deep chuckle.

"What with them, Malfoy ?" asked Rosier. His tone was more curious than offended, and Malfoy, enjoying his position, allowed the silence to last some more.

"Oh, I don't know," he said at last. "The usual. Page one, Crouch newly promoted Head of the Auror Office aged twenty-eight, the Chudley Cannons lost to Puddlemere United... and three attacks on Muggles in three weeks attributed to Grindelwald."

Cal snatched the newspaper from Malfoy's grasp, scanning the text. Grindelwald... Why would he have waited so long to come to Britain, when he announced during his reign that he had 'no ill intentions' towards them and desired an alliance, when he had called for Albus Dumbledore, when he, finally, ran away and hid ? Or had he waited ? Cal figured that, in Grindelwald's place, he would have run exactly where the enemy would expect him least - on his home turf - as soon as possible. Yet he remembered what he'd heard in his childhood: that Grindelwald was in the USSR, that for this reason he couldn't go to Durmstrang, Durmstrang was his. How far did the Dark Lord's hand reach ? At once Cal felt fear, something he didn't think he could know at Hogwarts. It was as though the shadow of the erstwhile Dark Lord lurked within the castle, a monster lying in wait.

Still something was unclear about the announcement. The deaths had been reported in the Daily Prophet. Admittedly, on page six, but it was nevertheless very unusual fare for the official newspaper of irrelevant Ministry happenings.

"It must have just killed Cygnus," said Bella distractedly. "Having to publish that in his newspaper. Think he read the article, or was he sick just on skimming ?"

Cal's explanation arrived by owl post on Monday, along with a fat pack of sweets in which a short note from Auntie Druella was tucked ("That's for all four of you until Halloween, Andromeda and Bellatrix oughtn't overindulge"). It was a very official letter bearing the Black family's crest, and Cal had to read it over Bella's shoulder. "Should Albus Dumbledore answer their summons this time," said the letter in Cygnus' characteristic cursive, "perhaps we may be rid of the Dark Lord." Later he commented, "Surely there are other sorcerers of Grindelwald's caliber ? Aurors to send, protective charms to cast – after very nearly three decades, must we still stand silent and wait ?"

Another scene was then painted on the back of Cal's mind in wide, bright brushstrokes. A younger, rounder-faced Cal was seated on a crimson chair in Cygnus' drawing-room, facing his father in a similar position, their dark hair and robes contrasting against the red cloth. It was very old cloth, and not at all soft to the touch.

"In 1945," then-Cal said, "the Dark Lord Grindelwald retreated in his fortress in Nurmengard."

"Where was Nurmengard ?"

"In South Germany. There, the Aurors went to clean the place but found that he had already escaped -"

"No. What happened before that ?"

Then-Cal's round eyes looked to his left while he thought deeply, his lips pursed. "I don't know, Father." His little hands tensed and twitched.

"Grindelwald sent one last message to the Wizengamot's Albus Dumbledore, revealing his location and offering a duel. Dumbledore never came. What next, Callidus ?"

"The Dark Lord left. He'd lost. People celebrated, and then you married Mother and started teaching." Cal wasn't sure whether his father's short laugh at this point was real or added to his memory by the weight of many years of wishful thinking.

"And the war ended, did it not ?"

"I don't know."

* * *

><p>Eleven witches and warlocks were seated, in various states of comfort, in a little alpine clearing chilled by a slight breeze. On this morning of late September, the sun was pale and low in the sky, and few birds were heard. Within the circle murmurs filled the silence, and a few people passed coffee and treats; all gazes and voices neatly avoided a spot left empty, between a bearded warlock wearing fur-lined robes and a middle-aged witch with a large nose.<p>

The whispers slowed and stopped. In the centre of the circle stood a tall, grey-haired wizard clad in blue.

"Friends," said the newcomer, "you have called, and I have come. May I have some of these delightful Bulgarian sweets you brought, Sara ?"

The stranger sat, and closed the circle. Armed with Sara's sweets and a cup of coffee, Albus Dumbledore, for that was his name, adjusted his glasses waiting for the Supreme Mugwump to start the reunion.

"We are gathered to unearth a matter that had been declared dead long ago," announced a tall, bald wizard with a French accent. "The Dark Lord is once more among us. Albus Dumbledore, coming to us from the United Kingdom, please speak."

"Thank you, Armand. In the last three weeks, in Manchester and Bristol, in England, and in Inverness, in Scotland, a total of fifteen Muggles and two wizards have been killed or injured, leaving traces of magic. In all these cases the Muggle police found accidents. But these attacks occured precisely at a seven-day interval, and in each case, one of the targeted Muggles was an exception to the Statute of Secrecy. I must say, I do not believe the Dark Lord is involved, for he had no reason to uphold the Statute he wished to abolish -"

"Hold your Abraxans, Albus !" rang the deep voice of the Supreme Mugwump. "Are you trying to evade judgment for your role in the Dark Lord's escape ? Truly, you have been making excuses far too long." A murmur of approbation echoed Armand's words. Behind the glasses, Albus' blue eyes dimmed, the corners of his mouth dropped imperceptibly, and he looked at once wearier.


	2. A Theatre Of Shadows

**Chapter 2**

**A Theatre of Shadows**

A flock of owls flew in and out of lifts, dropped memos over desks, and filled with their screeches the second floor of the Ministry of Magic. Bartemius thought it was high time to replace these loud, filthy, flying couriers by a cleaner system, preferably one that didn't need to be fed.

"The Minister wants to see you at ten, Mr Crouch," informed an assistant whose name he could never remember, an open memo in hand, his untidy hair littered with owl droppings. In the Auror office, wizards and witches were constantly rushing and sending word; since Dark activity had heightened, they were swamped. But Bartemius' Aurors needed no help. Whatever it took, the threat would soon be history, and he would be rewarded.

"Barty !" said the Minister, looking up at Bartemius and promptly locking his office door behind him. "I've heard the Aurors are having trouble tracking the attacks -"

"Yes, Minister," said Bartemius stiffly. "Those Dark wizards can be elusive. But trust me – they will be found."

"I have taken the liberty to inform my Muggle counterpart. The Muggles should notice unusual activity." Bartemius felt the sudden desire to throttle his superior. The Muggles couldn't be trusted. Besides, if they were now aware of the danger, there would be less incidents, thus less evidence for his Aurors to unravel; and the Dark Lord might walk free.

"The Muggles, Minister ? There is nothing they could possibly do !"

"They shall do what must be done, Bartemius, as will we," answered the Minister gravely. "This is no time for secrets."

* * *

><p>"Weasley has the Quaffle ! Distracted, he lets it fall out of his hands... a very original playing style by Weasley... oh, Callaghan's got it back, aiming straight for the Slytherin goals... Did you know Deirdre Callaghan was a great fan of the Kestrels ? She keeps a photograph of their lead Chaser right above her bed – I suppose she can't have it nearer -"<p>

"Miss Skeeter !" yelled Professor McGonagall from the Gryffindor stands, while in the Slytherin stands, everyone around Cal repressed a chuckle.

"Of course, Professor," continued Rita. "Quaffle to Thornton ! Thornton, a muscular seventh-year Slytherin standing in good line to play for England -"

"Well, Rita has it bad for Thornton," commented Andie next to him. "He looks like a particularly uncoordinated part-giant to me."

"I think we'd know it by now if Skeeter had taste," said Bella. "Though since she also lacks breeding, it isn't surprising. Look, I think her boyfriend scored against himself."

Cal was about to mention that Rita's tastes seemed to run to anyone male and opposed to her current object of contempt, when he caught sight of a blond figure amidst red and gold banners rising up and making his way up the stands.

"Why don't you tell me how it ends," he said. "I need to meet a friend."

Cal tried his best to avoid knocking people over as he followed Merryweather. Around him the match went on, with Rita's acerbic commentary and the Slytherins' additions; occasionally he laughed, as when the Gryffindor Seeker caught sight of something that turned out to be a Galleon Henry Crabbe was playing with and almost crashed in the stands. ("It needs be reminded," had said Rita, "that in Whitfield's unfortunate circumstances, a Galleon might be worth a few missing bones indeed ! Are you selling the Snitch if you manage to grab it, Whitfield ?")

By the time he finally left the Quidditch pitch, Merryweather was nowhere to be seen. In search of a tuft of blond hair, he instead found Malfoy, who tapped his badge and held up his nose, asking exactly what a well-behaved young Slytherin was doing instead of cheering on his team, and was made to get back to his seat tail between his legs, just as Bella addressed a string of inventive epithets to the Gryffindor team.

"Whitfield's magpie-like abilities may have served him well this time," said Rita, "but will he keep his title as Hogwarts' Chief Gold-Snatcher ? Stay tuned for more hot and sweaty Quidditch news from – Professor ! You're censoring me !"

At dinner Cal took great care to arrive late, and circle all the tables to see if Merryweather was present; indeed he had come back, and he nudged a stocky boy beside him as Cal passed.

Sitting down and serving himself some roast potatoes, Cal commented out loud that the Gryffindors must have been just vicious about their victory all afternoon, and had anyone had the misfortune of crossing their way ?

At once he was presented with many stories and anecdotes, first from his friends (Rodolphus, who'd seen Whitfield parading around as though he owned the world) but later involving the whole table, even Lucius Malfoy, who'd apparently had to suffer Weasley's smug smile throughout the prefects' meeting. Why, he'd put the runt back in his place, though he'd almost been punched for his troubles – just like Weasleys to debase themselves to the level of Muggles.

Nobody, though, had seen or heard Merryweather, not even in the Library as was his habit on Saturdays, and after half an hour Cal was no closer to finding out where he went.

The night's sleep was a blessing for Cal, who awoke early on Sunday with a jolt. He was careful not to rouse any of the other boys as he left his dorm on tiptoe, occasionally feeling some book or pile of clothing strewn on the ground and needing to adjust his step. Couldn't the house elves get to work earlier ?

It was only six o'clock, he estimated, when he finally sat on Rosier's bed and charmed a chilly wind on his face, that blew away his blond curls and gave him a sneeze. "What -"

Cal asked the younger boy to quiet down. "Rosier, my friend, do you want to do something that would stain the Gryffindors' image in the Headmaster's eyes, for once ?"

"Not certain it's possible," he said sleepily. As though finally understanding how much good mischief was offered to him, his eyes then lit up. "But of course I'll do it," he said. "I'm really good at setting people up -"

"No set-up necessary. You'll just need to follow Merryweather all of today, right ? Nobody knows – or so he thinks – but he wasn't at the match yesterday. Whatever he's getting up to, it's got to be shameful enough he can't tell his favourite lackey."

"And when I report to you, what's in it for me ?"

"Two Galleons and a whole day you can tag along with me and Bellatrix."

By the time Cal returned to his bed to pretend to wake up, the sun had risen, and he had promised Rosier two and a half days for his trouble; he had to admit he was excellent at haggling, for a boy his age.

The door closed behind Cal, and as he sat behind the desk he noticed, seemingly for the first time, how large it truly was; Cal's small hands were lost on the smooth surface. The antique bookcases still stared down on him from all walls, the lit candles lending an air of solemnity to his efforts. Parchment was laid down in front of him, along with sharp quills and deep inkwells; facing him his Defence teacher leaned against one of the imposing bookcases, holding his wand with a hand as loose and skilled as Cal's was cramped on his quill.

"Now," he said, and Cal thought that if his father would just lecture him as he did in class, the morning might not be so painful. "Why do we Stun opponents instead of killing them ?" Cal himself wouldn't be able to do either, so it mattered little; but his father expected a better answer.

"Because the Killing Curse has been illegal since the Forbidden And Unforgivable Curses Act 1717," he said instead.

"No. Well, that is true, but there are other ways to kill."

"It's just as effective and we aren't many wizards, so we shouldn't lessen our numbers further

lest the Muggles take advantage and use us. We would need everyone if the Statute of Secrecy was breached." Pause. "I don't know."

Raised eyebrow. "The answer is, we don't. The average Dark Wizard will not try to Stun you. So, what should you do ?"

Drop dead and try not to leave too much of a mess ? "I could try a shield charm." If I were someone else who can do shield charms, he completed.

"The correct answer is 'don't stay in the way'. Curses kill or maim on hit, but they don't always hit."

Then the desk was forcefully moved to the side by some invisible hand, and his quill and parchment levitated away from his grasp, fleeing when Cal tried to reach them. Cal and the professor now stood on either side of a large empty space, the professor's face slightly tilted to the side as he waited for Cal to prepare himself. "I need to try dodging now ?"

Indeed the afternoon was spent practising dodging conjured jets of water; by the end, Cal was soaking wet except for the top of his head, though he now evaded one stream out of three.

"Well, thank you, sir," said Cal, trying unsuccessfully to dry himself without causing a mess in the office. "If I'd met a Dark Wizard before today, I'd surely have died a thousand times."

"That would have been a pity," conceded his father with some amusement. "Here's hoping it doesn't happen as often in the future."

"I promise, sir," Cal said, and he thought of some knowledge of Defence he could show for once.

"Because one can't bring people back from the dead."

"Can't we ? They would not come back entirely right, but it has happened. Read up on Inferi for next time, including their weaknesses. And do practise your reflexes – we will not have duels in class until Halloween, so you should do so on your own."

Inferi, decided Cal, were terribly frightening and fascinating at once. How many had made them ? In the armies that encircled Hogwarts in Cal's darkest daydreams, Grindelwald in their midst, they now heavily figured. Cal did not know what Grindelwald looked like, but since he was very powerful, and much older than his father, in his mind he resembled Professor Dumbledore, but with a more conservative dress style. In these dreams the legions of dead bodies with dull eyes walked in the corridors just like Cal and his own class did, and there Cal brilliantly dodged their attacks (did Inferi attack from a distance ? He wasn't sure, but it made for more gripping action), and flashed red light everywhere, picking them off one by one. And then, if it was a realistic reverie, he turned out to have been prisoner of the hideous corpses all along, and it was Bella or Rodolphus who beat them off instead while he wished he was someplace else, anyplace safe.

"Pass me the tears," asked Andie, who never featured in such fantasies. "Quick, it's pink already."

Their potion was a bright magenta, just the right shade for the dragon's tears. Cal added them and gave three clockwise stirs, and as he prepared to ask Andromeda whether she thought the crushed roots ought to be added before or after stirring, he noticed her staring off to the other side of the class, though there was nothing out of the ordinary to be seen there.

"Andie ? I've stirred already, if you didn't mind -"

"Oh no ! You need to stir while adding them," she explained. "Why didn't you listen at the beginning of class ?"

"I was thinking back to my Defence tutoring. Why weren't you listening just now ?"

Andie's look fixed itself to the cauldron, wherein the potion was rapidly taking a purple hue. "Me too, if you'll believe it," she said in a clipped tone, faster than her usual. "I joined the Defence study group, you know, as did most prefects. I thought I could use the practice."

"Thank you, Professor, we wouldn't have done so well without your help," rang Malfoy's voice from the front row, where he was beaming over a fuming cauldron in which a liquid shimmered a violet colour. Near him, Crabbe stood nearly as proud. As Professor Slughorn lavished Malfoy with praise, Cal stared down at his and Andromeda's potion, still a deep purple, with no shimmers in sight. When their turn came, Slughorn inquired as to what happened – Andie had been in the habit of making excellent potions, and Cal had been better last year as well, taking after his father, no doubt, and when Slughorn said that his great moustache twitched as though he was swallowing a strange-tasting drink.

"I believe our roots were too old, Professor," said Cal. "They didn't crush well, did they, Andromeda ?" Andie nodded, and Slughorn seemed satisfied with the explanation, and agreed not to mark that potion. It always worked.

Over the next few weeks, Rosier and all other young boys Cal had sent to track Merryweather came back, day after day, lacking in news. He went to class and revised all right; and then he would rush down a corridor and disappear, and be back at dinner.

And so it was that on the first Hogsmeade week-end, Cal resolved to take up the work himself. He left the castle in the carriage right behind Merryweather's, accompanied by Bella and Rodolphus and Rosier, while Andromeda had said she'd spend time with the Defence club that seemed to occupy all of her mind of late.

Thanks to Uncle Cygnus' and Auntie Druella's generosity, Cal had no need for the sweets or toys less privileged children bought in Hogsmeade, and only went to keep his friends company, or to have company of his own, as it were. For Rosier the town's rather unimpressive shops were still new, and he relished the afternoon as he did all new things, eagerly commenting on his elders' habits. Cal sympathetically pretended to listen, while Bella, striding in front of them all, headed for the Three Broomsticks, where inevitably some adult would recognise her and ask after her father and his newspaper.

"And what do these Muggles have to do with us, anyway ?" she said briskly. "Why does the Ministry give them so much page-time, when we've been doing so well all these centuries on our own ? And that's all Cygnus talked about in his letter, too. No 'and I've heard about your prefectship, congratulations, Andie' – she's his daughter, mind -"

Cal reckoned the reason Cygnus was so tight-lipped about Andromeda's achievements was that he too had expected them to be Bellatrix's; but she wouldn't let him talk, and he exchanged a knowing look with Rodolphus, who promptly looked away.

"And here's Skeeter stalking some girls from afar, bet she's looking for dirt. And here's Malfoy... can he be any more pompous, I wonder... Oh, that's Peters, she's that girl in Ravenclaw that your friend liked. I never understood why, I find her a tad plain myself. Must be the blood showing. And that's Merryweather trying to sneak into the Hog's Head... probably the only ones that'll serve him... probably bragging about -"

"I bet they'd serve you even at the Three Broomsticks," said Cal, trying to find a way to unglue the fourth-year from him. "You could go and get mead for the four of us, we'll pay you later-"

"I won't fall for that !"

"Truly ?"

Rosier nodded. "I'm not paying for your drinks. Your parents aren't exactly paupers. And even if they were, I'm not given to charity."

Cal smiled and handed Rosier a fistful of coins. "Then that's on me, if they'll take it. I'm sure Bella will appreciate the thought."

As Rosier ran ahead to precede the group to the pub, Cal deliberately slowed down his footsteps and, suddenly changing direction as though he'd seen a friend, made his way to the Hog's Head.

The inside was crowded and dimly-lit; Cal was now uncomfortably aware that he stuck out in his clean robes, his hair exposed for everyone to see. He tried to glance around for a glimpse of the other student's own head, but Merryweather was rather shorter than most of the pub's denizens, some of whom towered over Cal himself. He passed many strange sights: a gaggle of bulky figures in dirty robes clustered around a table playing cards, an old man who was so skinny, and holding a glass so large, that Cal wondered how he was still standing, a crying woman who might have been part-troll, and more than a few people in dark corners exchanging whispers and gold held in stained gloves. It was the sort of place Cal wouldn't have wanted his father catching him dead in, and exactly the sort of place people tended to end up dead in, a fate he hoped hadn't befallen Merryweather yet, despicable though he may have been.

"Friend," called a low voice near him, and Cal turned to face a tall man whose smile was obscured by a hood pulled low over his face. "Yes, you," the stranger continued. "An acquaintance of that blond-haired kid, are you ?" Cal thought wise to pretend so, and the man kept going for a short while, describing to him that Merryweather had been seen over here a lot, that he just left before he could promise to introduce his friends to this man, and wasn't that a shame, because he could make a boy such as that go far...

His speech was very easy and very vague, and the more he talked the more it seemed to Cal that Merryweather had been involved with plans a good sight bigger than the usual Hogwarts fare.

He found himself strangely imagining what it would be to be in such a situation, recommended by such people; though they weren't any sort of acquaintances his parents would have wanted for him, that only made them more entrancing.

"Yes," said Cal warily, "I've been told about – you know – his new friend that he's been so eager to meet. I thought it could have been you, 'quite a long arm' he said." The stranger laughed.

"Alas ! He has deserted me. Surely he has been seeking out F. recently."

"Ah," said Cal. "Then it was F. Pity, that," he added hastily.

"F.'s affairs are, shall we say, of another caliber. Not as good to boys, F."

"Is he ?"

"Good prices, though." Cal nodded, not quite knowing how to answer that. "Discreet with his clients."

"Well, I'll catch up to him, if he's already left. I'll hear more than enough about F. tonight, I will," he said forcing a smile.

"Do come with your friend, next time," said the stranger. "Or without. I have been – disappointed in him recently. You sound clever enough to find me, if I can be of use to you," and his toothy smile was rather pleasing for someone who patronised the Hog's Head.

Cal took a brief stop at Honeyduke's before catching up to his little group. The Sugar Quills he bought for them soon had all his allowance for the term dried, especially combined with the bribes he had been giving Rosier and the other boys, but information was well worth the pay in his mind. When he pushed the door of the Three Broomsticks, thinking to himself about any possible way to come visit the helpful stranger outside of organised outings, he noticed that Rosier was no longer at their table, and instead Narcissa was sitting with her sister for a spot of tea.

"Sorry, I had an errand. Sweets for all," he announced brightly. "Sugar Quills, Cissy ?"

* * *

><p><em>In the interest of preserving the Statute of Secrecy and protecting the Muggles from the inevitable consequences of the Dark Lord's now acknowledged return, we propose the present Bill to be discussed at the Wizengamot on the twenty-second of December, entitled Special Situations and Strengthened Statute of Secrecy, in accordance with the International Wizarding Statute of Secrecy, intended to override the Documents and Records Availability Act 1939, the Muggle Relations and Other Sensitive Parties Act 1705,...<em>

Voldemort raised his quill and caressed his cheek for a moment's thought. Targeting too many laws at once would raise suspicion, and such attention he wished to elude for some time still.

It would be enough, at the moment, to ensure no issue of Muggles that maintained contact with their relatives could be allowed access to Ministry information unless said request was supported by a trusted wizard, and that all Muggles previously exempted from the Statute by virtue of their undeserving children should be at once rid of any sensitive knowledge. Dispersed, cut from their origins and dutifully reporting to a witch or wizard for any legal needs, the Mudbloods would be harmless and unable to find strength in their increasing numbers.

He glanced briefly at a pile of still-unmarked third-year essays on vampires, then at the proposal laid on his desk – it could not be said that Lord Voldemort made light of his responsibilities, or that he reneged on anything he had promised to Dippet so long ago, wearying though teaching could be over the years. Not for long, he thought. Hogwarts, his Hogwarts he would never leave, soon should become a much pleasanter, less crowded place, its education undisturbed by the comings and goings of the ever-warring Muggle world.

Noting the time, he returned to his proposal, the first in what he thought to be a long line of laws.

_Please accept our best regards and thank you for your generous consideration,  
><em>

_On this Saturday, the first of November, 1969  
>Professor T. M. Burke<br>Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry  
>Hogsmeade, Scotland<em>

Voldemort had to refrain himself from underlining his new name and address with his finger before the ink had the chance to dry, and smiled to himself in his candlelit office before rising to send his letter.


	3. No Secret Lies Sleeping

**Chapter 3**

**No Secret Lies Sleeping**

A cool wind blew over a nude hilltop, and at least thirty silhouettes cloaked in grey emerged from the night sky. They formed a great shadow that seemed to glide rather than walk over the rocks; suddenly one of them tripped and swore, soon joined by four of its fellows.

"Damned Dark Lord couldn't possibly be based in comfortable hotels," he said. "Or in a good, old-fashioned castle, sitting on his throne. No, it has to be in the middle of nowhere."

"Styx misses his escort missions," quipped another silhouette. "Watching over the Minister's guard from a nearby suite, now that's how he likes national security."

A few chuckles were had over Styx's perceived taste for luxury. "Very funny," he said, now back on his feet. "Cleared to kiss, Acheron ?"

The other nodded.

A third fellow took out a wand and muttered an incantation; the rest of the gliding figures congregated around Styx, Acheron and their colleagues. "Let us not waste any more time, then," she said. "You should like that, Acheron. As we say, there will be kisses for them all."

"Castles and Muggle literature," said Acheron drily. "What about you, Lethe, Phlegethon ? Secretly fond of fine wine and violin concertos ?"

The five arranged themselves in a circle, and all solemnly raised their wands. "Search," they said as one, and around them the Dementors scattered in all directions, fast as an unnatural wind, towards cities and stretches of farmland.

"I say, cold wave over all the county today," commented Styx. "Foggy with an incoming front of fear. Spend as much time outside as necessary."

* * *

><p>"That's why Merryweather must have been in Hogsmeade, at the match and during all his other disappearances," said Cal after narrating his story. "He was meeting with F."<p>

"A secret passage," said Andromeda. "You said the boys couldn't find him, that he turned and vanished. I doubt Disillusionment Charms are at his level."

"Of course ! Hogwarts is a castle, there had to be a great many ways out, for sieges. And didn't Slytherin leave 'where no one could follow', leaving 'no trace behind' ? Now, how to find them without the teachers knowing, I couldn't tell..."

Narcissa, who had been reclining on a chair near theirs and pretending to describe the Third Great Goblin Rebellion, turned to Cal, lips pursed. "You should keep out of this affair," she said.

"You haven't even seen the fellow's face, Cal. Our mother wouldn't like you sneaking off with people like this."

Andie laughed, nudging Cal's side. "Yes, have you heard that, Cal, dear ? _Mummy_ wouldn't like it !"

"You don't even care about her. Neither you nor Bella. You never write, and I've written to her, every week, and she always says 'And how are your sisters ?' and -"

"Well, if it mattered so much to her, she would write to us too, wouldn't she ? She sends Cal plenty of things, and he doesn't write more than I do, and he isn't even her son."

She rose up, brushing her hair behind her ears, and left the common room without looking back. Cal thought he ought to go to her and calm her down once the situation had resolved.

"Don't worry, Cissy," he said, to prevent Bellatrix from taking the chance to join the discussion. "I should be very safe. I'll tell you where I am and when I get back, and Auntie doesn't have to know at the moment. They seem to be very well-connected, you would approve."

Narcissa looked at him in silence, then nodded. "If you say so," she said without confidence.

"Now, let's see that History of Magic essay," proposed Cal in the interest of familial peace. "Did you know that the Goblin Rebellions always caused great fluctuations in trade, leading to wars among wizards and the passing of many of the ridiculous laws we have concerning legal trade, importations and so on ? No wonder the black market's alive and well."

Cissy wasn't very interested in the impact of the revolts in regulation, but a waifish girl in her year, who had been poring on the very same essay, brought up that her father had black market contacts, and what a pain it was to keep good relations with the goblins – shrewd little blighters hardly respected wizards, she explained.

Lucius Malfoy soon joined the discussion to mention that he wouldn't be bragging about black market ties if he were her, what with the recent rumours of their association with the worst of the Dark Arts. "The government's on a dark-witch hunt at the moment," he said. "Trying to inspect even Knockturn, and it's operated legally for ages. But cutting down on Dark magic's all that Auror can do, it seems."

"Dark Arts should be legalised and well-regulated," argued Cal, who had always been told the lack of a Dark Arts education made Hogwarts the laughing stock of the international scene.

"Come on, the reason Dark wizards exist in the first place is that the Ministry can't deal with them. Mostly because they have no idea what a Dark wizard is."

"Terribly observant of you," commented Malfoy. "I don't quite imagine a proposal about legalising the sale of unicorn blood making it through the Wizengamot, so maybe you should take a Shrinking Solution and start learning Gobbledegook. Flitwick might even give you lessons."

After the debate on goblins, laws and dark magic had died down, Cal set himself in search of Andromeda. He found her in the Great Hall, laughing with a boy that had a wide forehead and was absorbed in a convincing imitation of Professor Slughorn.

He set his hand on her shoulder to attract her attention, and, not paying the boy any mind, started apologising.

"... so I would have come after you earlier, of course, but I had to help Cissy with her essay, and then I couldn't very well be rude to Malfoy and leave, and -"

"And I was last in your list of people to pander to tonight. I understood that, I think," she cut.

"I was very worried," he tried again. After some hesitation, he added, "We all were."

Andromeda grabbed his arm, bid the boy goodnight with an apologetic look, and dragged him to a deserted corridor.

"Let me explain it to you," she offered, her voice as prim and sharp in that instant as Bellatrix's when she was almost done with her victim of the week. "First, Cissy wasn't worried. That's a lie. Cissy only ever worries about herself. Second, perhaps sometimes you should think more and talk less. Just an idea. Third, and I hate to be the one to break it to you, but the world runs itself very well without you." She marked a pause, and Cal maintained his smile and unaffected demeanour, tilting his head to the side. "And my world certainly doesn't need Mum's word to get by, and I'm dreadfully sorry yours does."

She stormed away enveloped in righteous indignation, and Cal was left alone, sorry and vaguely ashamed of the unnecessary conflict. He wasn't trying to interfere on anyone's life – merely making it easier, steadier, with all getting along. When left to his thoughts, a state he found most disturbing, he had to admit that sometimes his means weren't the most respectful – but his end was peace, and that was more than enough. Peace, he thought, went sorely missed in the world these years. He remembered his earlier years, the promises all adults made of a newfound order after the war, a Ministry that wisely wielded its magic to preserve a spirit of unity in the magical community, a time where children had no need for more than dreams and good manners, a world just like the one his mother often described from her childhood.

But they'd failed, said his parents sadly. It was up to him and his to succeed, against the outdated practices and misguided decisions of his elders. A tall order – but it was worth the effort.

Days turned into weeks and Andromeda's absence grew to take a greater toll on her family. Narcissa hadn't mentioned the fight in her letters to her mother; Bellatrix publicly announced that her sister was trying too hard to be different, and would come around soon, and then Cal would catch her stealing glances in her direction when she thought he wasn't looking. He now paid attention to the way he prepared their Potions ingredients, never missed greeting Andromeda on the rare occasion she was in the common room, and trusted his politeness and perseverance would eventually bear fruit as they did with everyone else. Malfoy and the other Slytherins merely saw an Andromeda more dedicated than ever to her Prefect duties and Defence practice club, to the point where her marks almost rivalled Bellatrix's.

This lasted until a morning of early December, when Cal saw Andromeda arrive late to Ancient Runes, face flushed and hair strewn about, and reckoned she'd been running. Then she sat next to him as she hadn't for a month, and was silent for the rest of the hour. Her handwriting was noticeably messier than usual, the feathers on her quill bobbing up and down as she scrawled her notes, and her blue eyes seemed lit by an unnatural glow amidst all the pink in her face.

After the lesson ended, Cal took advantage of her distraction to grab her translation among the papers left on the desk, and slipped it in his bookbag.

"Andromeda," he called when they got out of the last morning class. "Isn't this yours ?"

She took the parchment wordlessly, biting her lips. "Thanks."

"Auntie wrote to say she was very impressed that you were first in Runes now," he continued, though it was taking some liberty with the truth. "Cissy told her."

She smiled, and Cal smiled back; smiling was to him such a well-groomed habit that he was surprised it was genuine.

In the evening Andie was back in their common room, trading anecdotes with Cissy as though she'd never left, and the emptiness she displaced went unacknowledged.

As Cal walked out of his father's office the next Sunday, slightly dazed and smelling of burnt cloth after many failed attempts at stunners, Rodolphus was waiting, looking with interest at a picture of a wizard covered in snakes, alive but unable to scream. Cal remembered thinking medieval folks had, if nothing else, very adequate forms of torture.

"Ah, there you are," he said, extending an open hand to Cal, who looked in surprise until he saw what was held in it. "From good old Slughorn."

For a brief moment Cal thought it might be a note detailing how subpar his performance in Potions was, and to which degree he was a shame to Slytherin House, his mother's name and his father's blood. It turned out to be a very fairly worded invitation to Slughorn's annual Christmas party, and only said to confirm his presence and the name of his guest by Wednesday.

"Did you get one too ? Will you be bringing someone along ?"

Rodolphus confirmed that he did, and eluded the next question by saying that there really wasn't anyone he'd especially invite ("after all, you and Bellatrix are going already"), though who knew what could happen until Wednesday.

"I'm definitely getting a guest," said Cal. "If only so I needn't spend all evening with my parents."

"I thought your mother was still in London. And Slughorn doesn't talk about her that much."

"From what I know, she often comes here around midwinter, and she and my father don't leave till Christmas. It always riles up McGonagall, too, something about Hogwarts not allowing conjugal visits because staff needs to set an example – she 'reminds' Father about it every year – and all it's done is that now Mother makes a point of saying hi to her whenever she's around." Cal paused. "Anyway, Father might not like parties, but since this year it would give him a chance to introduce me around, I bet they're going. So I need a date. As a safety net."

"I'd conjure you one out of a hat, but I'm not that good yet," offered Rodolphus. "Can't you ask Narcissa ? She's young enough not to be invited, she likes social events, and she's almost your sister, which means less hassle."

As it turned out, Cal first figured he should take Andromeda, whom he expected to be offended at not being on the guest list when Bellatrix was, but who announced that she had no need for such gatherings and that she wasn't free on Friday, either way. Then Narcissa, who did want to go, though she said she'd wait a short while to see if someone not part of the family would consider her. When Wednesday rolled around, Cal spent most of the first hour of History of Magic frantically considering which of the girls in his class looked like someone who wouldn't mind spending an evening with his friends; he came up short, as Bellatrix, while a great witch and very loyal friend, tended to intimidate her own sex. He usually liked History of Magic, the only class he effortlessly understood, and great were his troubles if they kept him from analysing the political context of the fifteenth-century burnings.

By lunchtime, Cal was wondering whether he wasn't too young for Rita Skeeter (he was sure _she_ couldn't be 'waiting for someone better'). While he pondered, someone went to sit beside him, and the discussion turned to a new law that should be proposed at the Wizengamot the next week.

"Increased Secrecy," sneered Rosier. "All about these Muggles. What could happen to _us_ if Grindelwald made it here, isn't a problem, is it ?"

"I'm not sure that it's about them," said a girl's voice. "It hasn't made waves in the Muggle world at all. On the other hand it sure scared the Wizengamot."

"I couldn't help myself from overhearing," said Cal. "Are you really saying attacks on Muggles are meant to threaten wizards ? Seems counterproductive to me."

The girl shook her head and Cal recognised her as the black-market-contacts third year with whom he'd had a discussion on goblins. "Just that if it's part of any Muggle domination agenda, it's too subtle for them. They were convincingly passed for accidents. But then, I don't suppose Muggles are too observant."

"I don't think we were introduced." Cal smiled, hoping it would compensate for not knowing her name. "Cal Burke. I'm Narcissa's foster brother -"

"Oh, you're our Defence teacher's son," she said quickly. "Sarah Selwyn." She didn't move, so Cal took to himself to offer his hand for her to shake.

"Well, Miss Selwyn, I don't know if you've heard about Professor's Slughorn's little gatherings..."

Professor Slughorn's office brimmed with the noise of a thousand conversations, and Cal, though he had no problem keeping up small talk with Sarah, and had learnt many details of interest about her (she was the oldest of three; she didn't like school much; she was upset with the Ministry's decisions; she lived in the West Country; her parents were normal middle-class people who saw each other more than six weeks a year), kept looking around for familiar faces.

Professor Slughorn was flitting from one group to another to collect laughs, anecdotes and drinks like an oversized bee smelling the flowers. Cal recognised most of the adults: here the Wizengamot's own Arcturus Black, Order of Merlin, First Class, local celebrity, and patriarch of Cygnus' family, there inventor Bertie Bott, who had recently made a lot of gold with his Every-Flavour Beans. A short man decked in the national team's regalia was showing a fluttering Snitch to a very interested curly-haired woman who held a prominent position in St Mungo's. Even farther into the dimmed, cramped room a small crowd was gathered; there were Mr Lestrange and his son, and Cal would have offered Sarah his arm and gone to greet them if it weren't for their being engaged in deep discussion with his father.

Intrigued, he kept on watching them as discreetly as possible behind the large backs of the Quidditch stars and other miscellaneous collectables. His mother was easily overlooked, clad in a dusty grey and shadowed by his father's tall frame; Bellatrix was not, as she was talking more fiercely and loudly than all her company put together.

"Look who's trying to worm his way into a job," said Sarah, and it occured to him he had been cruelly neglecting her. Cal turned, and saw her tilting her small head towards Lucius Malfoy (and friends), trailing after Slughorn more faithfully than shadows, offering their hands to whoever the Potions Master happened to be greeting. "My father was always too shy to do that, said it was why he could never rise very far in the world. I don't blame him."

As Cal's eyes drifted to his parents again, hers followed, and she asked whether they and 'the eldest Miss Black' wouldn't be missing him.

"Oh, that," he said. "If I didn't know any better I'd think we were switched at birth."

But suddenly Bellatrix had stopped talking, and she and Rodolphus made a move in his direction. Cal immediately parted the rather diverse crowd to introduce Sarah to them, and, pretexting an urgent need to thank their host, went back to eavesdropping on the adults.

"Impressive," said Mr Lestrange, "how many would believe anything good Cygnus Black printed ! To think my own son is all aflame at the supposed return of the Dark Lord..."

"Yes," acknowledged Cal's father, "the strength of his ideals is commendable in one so young."

Mr Lestrange gave a short, polite nod, and Cal could tell how much pride seeped through this small gesture.

"Still," he said, "having all these happenings imputed to him raises quite a lot of noise, I'd say. Not a very wise campaign."

Cal's mother, heretofore silent, interjected. "There are precious few measures the Ministry can take without a target. If blame must be laid, let it fall on the people. They're the ones clamouring for reasons."

"Speaking of the Ministry's reasons, what of their new bill ?" His father sounded detached, as though he asked out of academic interest.

"They're deliberating."

"Deliberating !" he sneered. "I suppose they must do something, mustn't they ?"

The small group exchanged knowing chuckles and nods.

"But I daresay," continued Mr Lestrange, who seemed to relish the attention, "that many new thoughts have been circulating around the Second Floor lately."

"Oh!" said Cal's mother, "the Ministry doesn't want for circulating thoughts. That they'd settle in heads rather than desks, though, now that should warrant a page six, especially if they stayed for tea-break."

"We certainly won't be lacking in fresh events, considering the rate of the recent accidents," said his father matter-of-factly. "Perhaps they will need two pages six to hold it all this time."

* * *

><p>"Members of the Wizengamot," called the Minister's voice. The wizards facing him in a half-circle rose. "Staff and Administrative Committee," and he acknowledged seventy-some witches and wizards who had risen in turn behind them. "We are now holding council." All sat down.<p>

"First, in the matter of increased enforcement of the Statute of Secrecy in light of the current unfortunate circumstances, let us acknowledge Chief Administrator Adam Rosier, reading the proposal."

Adam rose alone, taking the parchment from his desk. Around him older witches and wizards stared with attention; in the front seats, some of the older Wizengamot members were whispering fiercely to one another. The old guard, the people who weren't affected by Muggles and their disgusting habits, who had always laughed off the danger. Maintaining a solemn countenance, he took his wand to his throat and cast a Sonorus Charm. The proposal was read, as were the many names of its supporters, most of them up-and-coming wizards of good blood.

Adam always marvelled at hearing his own voice echoed in the halls of one of the Wizengamot's assembly rooms.

"Now," said the Minister. "I trust we have all read the proposal. Has this knowledge brought to your minds any major objection ?"

In a center seat, the position reserved to some of the most beloved senior members, Albus Dumbledore rose up, not bothering to enhance his voice before speaking. "If I may, Minister. Is it truly imaginable that our citizens of non-magical origins, who I would remind you were voted to have equal rights to any other witch or wizard, should be punished for the deaths of their families and friends ?"

There was a moment of silence in the half-circle as Dumbledore expounded on his reasons. Adam knew the meeting had had to be specially rescheduled to prevent his presence; but he seemed to have many informants, as he had nevertheless arrived on time.

"Let us vote, then," announced the Minister after too long a time. "Special Situations And Strengthened Statute of Secrecy Act, those in favour."

One wand after another was raised. Adam struggled to count them all. There might have been half, but he dared not raise his hopes.

"Wands down. Those in opposition."

Immediately, Dumbledore raised his wand, followed by the fellows in the front seats that had been whispering earlier in the session. There were more murmurs, calmed by the Minister's demand for silence. Wands were raised again in small groups.

"Well," said the Minister, "let us -"

Then at once ten more wands joined the 'against' camp, and Adam found himself wishing Albus Dumbledore had choked on one of his famous sweets that morning.

"With thirty-nine for and fifty-two against," said the Minister. "The Wizengamot has decided to reject the proposal."


	4. Pasts and Presents

**Chapter 4**

**Pasts and Presents**

Diagon Alley was dishearteningly free of snow in this afternoon of late December, and Andromeda concluded there wouldn't be a White Christmas this year either. Amongst the merry shoppers making their way through the cobbled street, occasionally grabbed by a well-polished broomstick or the hooting of an owl, she couldn't see her family; and, walking briskly to merge in the crowd, she glanced at the brightly-coloured storefronts without daring to slow her steps and have a look.

It was a demanding task, buying presents, especially for someone you hadn't known long. It was obvious to Andromeda, for example, that there would have been no better present for Bella than the sleek black cursebook she'd found in Knockturn. But what did one buy for a boy one had known mere weeks (the last of them not in the best of terms) ? Andromeda thought of an olive branch, but she didn't think his good-natured humour stretched that far.

She had also considered a broom, even though he wasn't on the house team, or a nice Kneazle, or perhaps a new set of robes, but she had remembered that every one of these items wouldn't have found its place in a Muggle home in the city. What did Muggles buy for one another ? (He had assured her Muggles had Christmas, but she hadn't thought of asking then. It would have been too obvious.)

"I'm sorry," said the Ted in her head, "I think I've forgotten where we were again."

Andromeda wondered why she hadn't thought of it earlier. Ted was terribly disorganised. She headed to Hare's Wares in search of a good Remembrall - and maybe she'd join an olive branch, too. It couldn't hurt.

* * *

><p>"Don't expect me to feed you every night," warned Cal in a tone that was close to a whisper.<p>

The snake blissfully ignored his warning. "More mice ?"

Cal rummaged in his robe pocket to present a dead rodent to the animal. "I prefer them alive," it objected. "Us serpents are predators, you know."

Cal straightened his back against the large tree that was shielding them from view, Uncle Cygnus' house looming behind them. He watched the snake have its meal with an undisguised expression of disgust, wondering why he couldn't have been gifted with the ability to talk to animals with better table manners. He was rather partial to birds, himself.

"My parents won't be there for Christmas," said Cal to no-one in particular, because he hardly expected his companion to know or care about human festivities. "I've read in the library you don't know your parents," he added. "That they all leave right as you are born or before."

The snake at first made no further comment as it swallowed up the mouse. "That is true," it said at last.

"Perhaps it's for the better," said Cal, who had spent nearly all his childhood in adoration of all too elusive figures.

"Speak for yourself," said the animal. "I'd like to be fed twice a day like your kind are. Speaking of which..."

Cal wasn't sure a boy of his age and station should spend his time wandering the gardens killing pests, and it was going to be difficult to be left alone every night. Still, the snake had proved good company, for a non-sapient being, and there was nothing Cal valued more than company. He found himself promising to come back the next day bearing more food.

"But when I go back to school...," he made a gesture as though he was cutting something.

"Life as usual," agreed the animal. "But it's good to be cared for on occasion. Remember, I like them alive."

Christmas dinner involved turkey and was very pleasing to Cal's taste. Christmas conversation, in his opinion, took a definite bad turn around the time Uncle Cygnus questioned Bellatrix's propensity to find herself in detention.

"You know how Hogwarts is like, Father," she pleaded. "It doesn't mean anything but that Dumbledore doesn't like my family."

"The letter – not the one you didn't write, the one I received from your Head of House – said that you insulted a boy's family -"

"The Weasleys, Father !"

Uncle Cygnus's frown relaxed a little, and he smiled at his daughter. "You also cast aspersions on a girl's character -"

"She's seeing Weasley, she doesn't have a character to be spoken of," she said, momentarily dropping her pleading voice. "It's unfair that they'd give me detention for valuing my family's honour !"

"With hexes ? I warned you already about expressing your opinion with violence... not all opinions are safe to have nowadays, you know, Bellatrix."

At this Bella was silent; but her sister on Cal's other side had dropped her fork, and was listening intently. Cissy's gaze, on the other hand, darted from Bella to her father, and back again, probably weighing the advantages of speaking up. Cal tried to catch Auntie Druella's look so that they might remove strain from the atmosphere, but she was obstinately fixated on their dining-room clock.

After dinner Cal would have visited his new, hissing friend; but Uncle Cygnus called him before he had any chance to slip out. He looked weary, his face almost too pale a spot against his long, well-groomed hair and the darkened corridor behind him.

"You haven't taken to settling your conflicts with curses, I trust," he said.

"Of course not, Uncle. I wouldn't."

And unexpectedly, Cygnus laid his hand on Cal's forearm. "Good," he said. "Excellent."

"Uncle Cygnus, is there something I should know ? About Bella ?"

"No," said Cygnus quickly, "not about her. Listen, there is a – rumour going around, that some of the best of us – even our own family – are behind the recent... unpleasantness. This is ludicrous. I don't want her... or you... to feed the gossip-mongers. My paper still has its credibility."

"We're at school," said Cal warily.

"Yes, yes. Well, some things might not be for children to see or do, but that's never stopped them, right ? Even at Hogwarts, they can't follow your every step." Cal found the idea that his classmates could be liberally blasting people away in their spare time appaling. "Be careful."

Cal at last made it to the gardens just past midnight, passing Andie, who was leaving the bedroom she shared with her sister. He distributed the promised meat, and then, as he had started doing so after all, took his presents to their intended recipients.

Cissy slept soundly, and did not stir at all when he set it on her bedside table. Her parents seemed to have fallen into sleep on the sofa, where they made an uncommon tableau: she was as fair as he was dark in the still-lit room, and they were cradled against one another as though they feared night would separate them.

Bella was alone in her room, which was in a state of great disarray with pillows scattered about, and she turned her wand incessantly in her hand.

"Where's Andie ?"

"Not that again," she snarled. "In hell as she deserves, I hope. Care to join her ?"

He sat down next to her, only to be met with the pointy end of her wand.

"No, I'd rather not," he said sheepishly.

"Cygnus's a first-rate coward," she stated. "And she's not much better. I asked her whether this wouldn't all just end if we were rid of them all – the Secrecy, the Wizengamot, the Muggles, the Ministry, everything, that people might tell the truth for once, but of course she can't have an opinion. 'They only want to be safe.' Why's it all about other people ? Why ? Don't answer. You're like that too. Always with the 'considering the other side' indecisive half-hearted -"

"Sometimes the truth isn't the best thing to say."

"For decades ? Ha! Some country we live in !"

Cal fell silent, for he didn't quite know what she was rambling about at that point; still she kept talking into the small hours of the night.

Cal would have to wait until New Year's Eve, which they always spent at Grimmauld Place with Mr Black and the cousins, to see his parents again.

The holiday was the cause of much activity for the extended Black family: Mr and Mrs Black were especially well dressed for the day, with robes of a deep crimson, as was Regulus matching with them. Sirius had, it was explained, strictly refused to attend the festivities - "he's getting older, of course," said Mrs Black, "all healthy young boys would rather play than dine with their family". In spite of her words, Cal caught her scowling soon after she glanced up the stairs in the direction of her eldest's room, and warmly smiling down at Regulus.

The grown-ups were gathered in the drawing-room in the hours leading up to the year's end, Arcturus Black in the center, taller than most of them in spite of his advanced age. Cal stood just as tall as Cygnus now, but still was deferential to the other men, and he wouldn't have dared slouch on his chair as Mr Black seemed to be doing.

"I swear," was saying Arcturus, "that wholly half of us are in infraction to the law as it stands now. Even you, Pollux," he said, and Pollux winced at being singled out, "these enchanted daggers you had had imported thinking they might sell well here ? Black market, now. Can't have magical weapons. People might get ideas. That Auror is many things, but indolent isn't among them."

There were many expressions of solemn approval, and Arcturus, who had had more than enough to drink, soon switched subjects, his sense of self-preservation catching up with his tongue.

When Cal, his family, and his natural parents, who were staying with them the remainder of the holiday, assembled and prepared to leave, he caught a glimpse of Sirius. The boy was standing by Andie in a casual posture, and talking to her at length. As soon as the adults looked in his direction, he quietened, turned heel and ran up the stairs, and he wouldn't have been faster with the Dark Lord himself on his trail.

The morning of January the sixth, slightly foggy as Christmas had been, announced Cal's birthday, making it particularly noteworthy. More noteworthy even was that he awoke to the sight of his mother, who sat still reading by his side, and did not look fazed in the least when he jolted up and made a startled noise.

"It's ten o'clock already, Callidus," she informed. "I believe my present would have been even more interesting had you been able to receive it earlier."

So surprised was Cal upon hearing she had brought him a present that he dressed and ate in haste, stealing glances at her all the way, and she waited with no trace of impatience, but still did not take it out. Instead, she motioned for Cal to take her arm. It took a few seconds before he understood that they were Apparating: the sensation was not pleasing at all, and it wasn't nearly as exciting as he'd expected.

With a 'pop', Cal found himself sprawled on an unfamiliar stone floor. He looked up. Around him were many witches and wizards striding about and owls hooting. They all were oblivious to him: a witch even stepped around him without a glance. Above were – yes – a witch and wizard, looking haughty and determined. They were standing above an elf, goblin and centaur, and then Cal recognised the imposing fountain of the Ministry of Magic, with its engraved motto. In his prone position, Cal thought he looked rather like he was paying his respects to the statue himself.

After he had struggled keeping track of his mother, who walked as unaware as the rest of his surroundings, and followed her into a crowded lift where owls had thought his head a good perch, Cal arrived on the second floor. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement had a large, rectangular waiting room with an enchanted ceiling, where sat people in uncomfortable-looking chairs, various lists of reclamations in hand.

A journalist got up from his chair every so often to walk to the doors leading to the employee's offices, and was invariably met by a large hand appearing out of nowhere, that pushed him backwards as an official-looking red envelope fell into his lap. The journalist's seat had enough of these envelopes lain on it to mask its original colour.

Cal's mother walked up to the doors, took out her wand, and was granted access. They passed many offices with golden nameplates, on which Cal recognised many names, for they were either family friends or friends' family, until they were joined by a broad, older man.

"Oh," he said genially, "surely this is Callidus ? Good to see our young taking some interest in the welfare of our people. Well, hello, Callidus, I am Mark Waffling."

"Arcturus Black talked a lot about you," said Cal. " 'Perhaps the only Wizengamot member none of us count as an enemy'. I'm all for Wizarding unity too, and it's great someone's promoting it."

Callidus stopped speaking before he got to the end of his thoughts – it was rather too much admiration to show a stranger.

Waffling smiled, and asked whether he would see them later in the morning; Cal's mother nodded, and Cal wondered just where she was taking him.

The office of the Department Head, Millicent Bagnold, was deceptively cosy, and two of the walls covered with pictures of the Department's various employees. Madam Bagnold herself greeted them warmly.

She talked to him for a long time, enquiring about his schooling and likes.

"Your mother informed me you were particularly interested in the workings of the Ministry," she said at last. "Would you elaborate on something you found attractive, or otherwise intriguing, about it ?"

"It's the fountain," said Cal almost without thinking; but seeing her smile falter and her eyebrows look up, he continued. "Up in the Atrium. With the goblin looking up at the wizards ? It fascinates me in that it does not at all represent the truth."

"Pardon ?"

"Well," expounded Cal thinking back to Sarah's little exposé two months before. "Goblins have their own little currents of thought. They never do anything we ask of them, and they care little for the law. They keep all our gold to their sly hands, and do we give them any reason to let go ? They'll steal and trick what they can. What the fountain represents, maybe it was true in 1700; but today wizards are looking down, and finding themselves encircled, and goblins are looking to themselves, and finding themselves rich. But still we've got the fountain in the Atrium, and it shows us the past as it was, and the present as it ought to have been."

"As it ought to have been ?" Madam Bagnold was smiling again, but what reassured Cal most was that near him his mother seemed impressed as well.

"In order. Led by magic, and supported by people."

"Tell me about it," sighed Madam Bagnold. "However, I am sure you realised not everyone as been as supportive as they should be... and we cannot build a government on children's hopes."

"Today's children do more than hope." Cal thought of Bella playing with her wand as though she'd been dying to use it.

"I believe, Mr Burke, that we have reached the reason of this meeting," she said, wrinkles appearing at the corner of her mouth as her lips stretched. "We are looking for someone among our youth to foster a spirit of support at Hogwarts, attend a few events, someone we can trust and by whom we will be trusted in return. It would be such a shame for young people to be left on their own at such a time. I was told you were just that sort of student – and my source was not mistaken. Would you accept ?"

Of course Cal accepted. His posture even relaxed a little, his face stretching into one of these genuine smiles, even in a grin, and inside he felt himself smile even wider, while he momentarily envisioned himself standing proud like the people in the statue rather than prostrated like he'd truly been. And wouldn't that just render Merryweather green with envy ! It'd made his mother smile – perhaps it would calm his father's fears as to his future. Cal wanted to run home and tell Andie, Bella and everyone, and see them all smile and laugh even as he dared not.

Cal barely slept through the night in his excitement, and the next morning, he was up before the sun rose above the hills in the horizon. Unable to sleep, and unwilling to remain alone with his emotions much longer, he resolved to go sit behind the large tree and talk to the snake, who wasn't excellent company, but had no other choice than to listen.

Going down the corridor, trailing his fingers on the dark walls, he heard a faint cry come from the library. He changed paths until he came to stand just against the doorframe, seeing into the room. Now as well as noises he could make out half-swallowed words.

There were large cases of books, but no candles seemed to be lit.

He took a step into the room, taking great care not to make noise.

"Please leave."

It took Cal a few moments to realise the voice wasn't adressing him. Taking a further step, he was now entirely in the library. His mother was alone; there was a book open by her side, and she was kneeling and staring into space.

"No, you are right. I shan't let you leave, and yet I shan't follow you either."

Cal looked fervently around the room, but it was still empty. Electra had her hands joined and clasped, tensed. Her wand was just by her side, but she was uninterested in it, and she still pleaded to someone Cal could not see. He remembered his evening talking to the snake, and wondered if that was what he had looked like.

"Don't say that," she said, unusually upset. Her face was tense and pale, almost like a mask, in the light of dawn that filtered from the window and spilled itself around her wrists and knees.

"Leave again. Leave again. Call someone else. Can you bring someone else ?"

The mask cracked. Creases formed around her eyes, which she'd closed with far too much force, and she was crying. Stray hairs glued themselves to her cheeks.

"Mother, who's that ?" Cal heard too late that he'd shouted, but he might as well not have been there, because she remained unmoving. "Mother, I'm sorry to have interrupted, but there's no one there."

It went on for a few minutes, Cal asking questions that would never be answered, and Electra in a world of her own (but did Cal's parents ever live in his world, he wondered), with whatever illusion was tormenting her.

Then without warning she grabbed her wand, and aimed it at the wall in front of her, where an explosion burned the paint and sent a nearby desk flying straight into a bookcase. The furniture fell like antique dominoes, and when the dust had settled, his mother was still standing, one hand cramped on her wand and the other formed into a fist, mouth still twisted in terror.

In front of her, there wasn't anything to be seen, save for a few burn marks.

Cal was beginning to worry that there might truly be some invisible threat staring down at them – or that his mother herself, unaware as she was of him, might blast him as easily as she had that wall – and considered who to rouse to get help. Uncle Cygnus would panic as surely as he had.

Someone sent the door flying open, wobbling uselessly on its handles for an instant, and Cal's fears and hopes stilled as his father stood against it, much calmer, he thought, that the situation warranted. Cal quickly wiped his hands on his robes so that he wouldn't be caught sweating. This was revealed to have been a pointless move: his father glanced at him once and then promptly directed his attention to the battlefield that once was Cygnus Black's library.

"Hardly a worthwhile opponent," he commented. Cal's mother heard him, because she slowly took a step back towards him, her wand hand falling to her side as though she was waking up from a strange dream. It didn't last; almost immediately she took her wand to the wall again, and an otherworldly wind fell in the room, though eerily it didn't affect their hair or clothing, nor did it sweep up stray books; instead it clashed against the wall with a noise like a curtain flapping, and went away.

This time the look of indifference on his father's face had left place to unabashed curiosity; his eyes followed Electra's, and he cast the same spell, to little effect.

Weren't they safe yet ? Cal resolved to think about anything but that flapping curtain sound, and closed his eyes. Wasn't closing his eyes cowardly ? What would his father think of that ? Was the spell something he should have seen in Defence ? What was the title of the book on the ground ? Cal hadn't paid attention. It was a thin book, not the kind he'd have seen in his father's office. There was a picture on the cover. What was the picture on the cover ?

A clunking sound. Cal opened his eyes only to see something small shine on the ground, and he grabbed it so as to have something to look at.

Well-behaved boys don't grab someone else's jewellery, he thought. Bah ! Nobody'll notice. Nobody's noticed me yet.

It was a ring set with a black stone; and it would have been valuable hadn't the surface of the gem been scratched. Cal tried to hold up the ring to the light to better see the scratches: they might have formed a letter.

"I believe you have something of mine," said his father's voice coldly. Looking up, Cal saw that the room had been put back into proper arrangement, and the wall cleaned to a spotless white. His parents stood near the centre of the room, his father holding his mother by the shoulder, seemingly to prevent her from falling down; her hands were now open, and her wand tucked into her pocket.

"I found it," Cal said less confidently than he'd hoped, almost squeaking. "Uh, here. It won't happen again."

He was holding the ring in his outstretched hand; his father took it with ease, examined it under the light, turning it in both directions. Finally he turned to Cal, who'd had, thankfully, the time to compose himself and take the thin book with the picture on the cover. He smiled; it seemed Cal hadn't imagined it after all. It was the exact same smile as in Cal's most fanciful memories.

Perhaps he'd done right.

"Indeed," said his father. "I trust it will not." It was not all he said.

"_Obliviate_."

The morning came and went uneventfully.

* * *

><p>Mark left Courtroom Seven, where he and his esteemed colleagues had just sentenced a man accused of trafficking weapons of goblin-wrought silver to six months in Azkaban. For his part, Mark rather agreed with Albus Dumbledore, in that Azkaban was a truly dreadful place for even a criminal, and he kept enough goblin-made items at home to feel uneasy convicting on that basis. Nevertheless, such was the law they had to uphold, and if the Dark Lord hadn't come back – a fact Mark had to remind himself was partly Albus' fault – trials would have been altogether different.<p>

But Albus was a great sorcerer, and great sorcerers often took great decisions, hard though they may seem on regular wizards. For example, the rather sensible extended secrecy bill had been rejected primarily because Albus had required so, though Mark wondered how the great wizard thought to prevent more casualties without such a measure. All considered, it had been a stressful two weeks, and the Wizengamot knew no Christmas holiday; Mark was glad matters were settled.

He took his leave from everyone, and even passed by the Department Head's office; he said goodbye to Crouch, who was running around the department with a wad of reports under hand, and barely grumbled back a 'come back soon' in return. The secretary wished him rest and filling family meals, and even Albus had said there was nothing more important in times of strife than loved ones.

Mark made his way to the Apparition Point, where enchantments were selectively removed for Ministry employees and associates, and with the familiar sinking feeling, disappeared.

The very next minute he was standing in his living room. Esther hadn't waited for him to have supper, the risks of coming back past eight, he supposed. He walked into his kitchen, announcing for good measure that he was finally home, and had no standing obligations for days. In the process he almost tripped on Esther's wand.

No one was waiting there either, except for a messy trail of burns on the ground.

Mark followed, and this time he was rather worried as to what had caused it. Should he Floo Albus ?

The trail led up the stairs, all the way to a corridor their bedrooms opened into – but he had no need to go farther, because right at the end of the corridor he found Esther, who was sleeping on the ground in a shape no human body ought to be able to take. Near her were their two visiting daughters, piled up on each other to clear the way. Paintings were burned and torn from their frames, lying on the ground just as the women did. Mark felt as though he'd been torn and burned too – he watched himself call the Aurors, and leave his house, locking the door behind him, though that hadn't helped, of course.

He watched himself walk a few feet up the winding road, watched the other houses so identical and yet so different with their windows alit, and lastly he watched the stars. There a large green skull mocked him, a snake slithering from its mouth and pointing towards his house like a giant arrow.


	5. Tricks and Threats

**Author's Note:** This is my longest chapter to date. There was a lot happening in it !

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 5<strong>

**Tricks and Threats**

"Too drastic ? There is no such thing as too drastic a plan," said Bartemius, leaning over the desk to address the Aurors gathered in the room, his shoulders squared.

"But all the Dark Arts fanatics we've caught don't seem like the type for murder," objected Meadowes from the first row. "And some of them have been in Azkaban for weeks. Even if we round them up for the interrogation, they might not identify the mark."

"Then we have not caught enough ! Criminals all of them, murders waiting to happen ! Unless we shape up and stop them. Would you rather go home, Meadowes ?"

But Bartemius could not further motivate his troops: his assistant had just showed up.

"Mr Crouch," he stammered, "we found this on the – with Waffling's family. Should I inform the Minister ?"

In his hand was a rolled-up piece of parchment. A letter ? It was a particular type of criminal that left letters. Bartemius thought to have the handwriting verified, but as he unrolled the note, he realised it had been enchanted to mimic his own – and how disgusting it was to see his letters form such words.

"Dear Mr Waffling," he read aloud to the assembly. "Even death needs not happen to the truly great. Rightness leads to greatness. We alone know the way. Signed, the Death Eaters. Does any of you know what it means ?"

"Their advertising could use work," said an Auror in the back. "Enchanted notes on corpses aren't the best for their image."

This was no time for jokes, and Bartemius frowned.

"War," he roared. "This means this – organisation – has created itself an enemy, and a fearsome

enemy we will be. Meadowes, you and your team shall proceed to the interrogation. Use Dementors if necessary. Moody, send people to guard officials' homes. And you," he continued to his assistant,"get me the Minister, and Bagnold. I can't do miracles with what little power they've conferred me."

* * *

><p>"Where have all the horses gone ?"<p>

The carriages taking Cal and his friends back to the castle were, indeed, rolling along just as usual, except there were no beasts tied to them, and instead they seemed to advance on their own.

"Replaced," said Rodolphus. "By Thestrals, I've heard."

Bella interjected. "But there are no tame Thestrals left in Britain. My great-grandparents used to own some, but they never bred. It's hard to get them to."

"The gamekeeper's assistant really likes Thestrals, and just about anything meat-eating or otherwise wild. My dad says that he was even like that when they were at school, and once he took a girl to see the trolls in the Forest. I'm surprised yours never told you that, Cal, apparently the whole school was talking about it."

Cal didn't think gossiping about fellow employees was particularly favourable to career advancement at Hogwarts, and thus did not find it all that surprising.

As they approached the castle's gate, Cal was reminded of some other piece of gossip that he very much wanted to know.

"Wouldn't your father have told you of a secret passage between here and the village, by any chance ?" he asked airily.

"So you can go have a drink before Divination ? Lord knows we'd all need one. Bring back the bottle." Rodolphus laughed, and Cal gave him a small, contrite smile for all answer; yet no one volunteered the information.

Then Rosier pointed out that it was a good thing Andromeda wasn't present, or Cal might have lost them points for mentioning that intention, and they all agreed and joked on the prefects' need to loosen up. Narcissa's laugh was shorter than the others', and Bellatrix's louder, and suddenly Cal felt guilty for mocking their sister thus; still they all kept taking jabs at the absent, and so did he.

Cal was re-acquainting himself with his notes on the wizard separation and the establishment of the Statute of Secrecy in the library when the writing of his conclusion ("_The recommendation that wizards avoid going to church, in order both to prevent them socialising with Muggles and the Muggles being led on by unscrupulous wizards pretending to do miracles, thus sealed the schism observed to this day between the two worlds, allowing the wizards a free existence, and research into various fields of magic previously regarded with suspicion – such as that pioneered by the Peverell brothers..._") was interrupted by a discreet cough from across his table.

The cough came out of a thin, small mouth attached to Sarah Selwyn, a witch Cal mainly remembered for her patience in dealing with the dreadfully boring party he'd invited her to just before Christmas. Cal let go of his quill and straightened himself on his chair, looking right into her eyes with what he hoped to be an amiable expression.

"Uh, I had a great time last month," she said. "So... is that History of Magic you're working on ?"

Cal nodded, and offered her a seat once he'd caught her uncomfortably switching her weight around, though in truth he'd rather have spent the night with his homework.

"Terrible, what happened to Waffling," she continued with the restless tone of someone trying to get used to their own conversation. "Don't you think ? My dad said he had it coming -"

"No, he didn't." Cal remembered Arcturus's introduction: the only Wizengamot member with no known enemies. The one no one really wanted to see dead, in other words. "He was well-loved."

"But a friend of Professor Dumbledore's," she said. "And _he_'s not well-loved. My dad and everyone I know was complaining about him for years. Always proposing some new far-fetched Muggle-supporting law."

Cal could recite them all. The advantages of growing up with a father and uncles who insisted that he know well their political system. "Support for their war," he said in a monotone to rival Binns's. "Food for their widows. Authorisation for Muggle relatives of wizards to access the Ministry building, attend their trial, and be consulted on their schooling. Muggle Studies compulsory. Equal representation for Muggleborn wizards and witches in the Muggle Liaison Office. It only got worse with time. Everybody who's anybody thinks he's off his rocker."

Sarah listened raptly. It occurred to Cal that few people gave his words such attention, and he was not a little flattered to have it. After waiting the requisite time in case she had an opinion to add, he continued his exposé.

"... But the thing with Muggles is, they have all these ideas about magic, just like they did centuries ago, that it solves all problems and decides all outcomes, and they sort of always wanted to be ruled by it. They'd give it many names, but ultimately they only wanted their lives' direction to be forever beyond their understanding, in the hands of something they'd never explain; and that something we can control, and that is why this world is ours."

"Exactly," she said, "and it's so hard, too, isn't it ? When you can't just tell yourself life is someone else's business. When you have to face it. And that's what the Muggle-lovers want to impose on them ? To see themselves forcefully entered in a game they just don't have the power to win ?"

Cal and Sarah were taken out of their conversation at this moment by the sound of a book abruptly closed. Merryweather rose up and passed them, his jaw firmly set, and at the last minute looked them up and down before speaking.

"That's just disgusting to hear," he said. "Good thing you and yours won't be around much longer, with the new Aurors. I for one welcome Minister Crouch, if it comes to it."

He walked away, brisk footsteps falling so hard on the ground that he was called out on it by the librarian, Mrs Plum. Cal watched as the other boy's disproportionately long arms fell to his side, fists clenching and relaxing alternately, and was suddenly very pleased to have Madam Bagnold's favour, when all Merryweather had was his rage and his friends.

The first thing Cal did about Merryweather's staggering lack of manners was to complain about them to Bella, who in turn was complaining to him that Andie had gone off again and Rodolphus was poring over a letter instead of revising with her.

"There's this new spell I've learnt, and no one who'd bother helping me with practising it," she said. "All you lot have no loyalty whatsoever. Of course, when it comes to whinging to me, it's one thing, but just ask for one little favour and suddenly it's easy to see the wimps coming out in droves."

Something in Cal urged him to object that he wasn't a wimp, but the part of him that liked to be honest caused him to reconsider.

Cal spent the rest of the evening finishing a Defence essay for the next day. He had slightly neglected his studies, but between his supplementary lessons and his reading, he hoped he could do something at least on the O.W.L.'s theoretical portion.

It turned out no amount of notes could have prepared him for that lesson. The Defence classroom was, as usual, very calm, and the thirty Hufflepuffs and Slytherins were transcribing word-for-word the professor's usual commentary on countercurses.

"Stop writing," he said. "Let us ask a few questions. Can anyone tell me why you are currently bothering to learn all this ?"

Several heads rose, but not Cal's, who knew better than to draw attention to himself. Nevertheless no one volunteered; not even Bella, who usually would practically jump on the table to answer.

"Well," continued Cal's father in the face of overwhelming silence. "That is very eloquent of you. Runcorn, stand up."

Runcorn, a short Hufflepuff boy with a large mop of brown hair, looked nervously to his side.

"Runcorn ?"

The blonde girl sitting next to him tried to save poor Runcorn from imminent public humiliation by answering the question herself. "It's because it's important for us to know how Dark Wizards fight so we can protect our friends against them, Professor," she said, smiling as though she expected to be praised.

"I'm afraid you will have to wait some time to be called Runcorn, Miss Worth. Five points from Hufflepuff for not even knowing your own name."

Worth's blushing would have set most of the class's Colour-Changing Charms to shame, and generated no shortage of nudges and winks among the Slytherins.

Runcorn, decided to action by the treatment his housemate was receiving, rose. Their professor slightly tilted his head to the side to encourage him to start speaking.

"W-well, I think... I believe, Defence Against the Dark Arts is a very important branch of magic ?" The professor motioned for him to go on. "The Ministry wants us to learn it."

"Of course. Who agrees with Runcorn that we are learning to defend ourselves against the Dark Arts because -" there was a hint of laughter in his voice - "because _the Ministry asked us to do it_ ?"

Worth and a few of the Hufflepuffs raised their hands out of solidarity. On the Slytherin side of the class, only Crabbe had raised his hand, until Lucius Malfoy violently kicked him under the table and it was brought down.

"I see. Does anyone here know what were the last, say, five or six of the Ministry's policies ?"

Lucius Malfoy raised his hand, perfectly calm. "There was the passing of the Dark Magic Regulation Act, of course. And the extension of rights of the Aurors."

"There was the restriction on magical creature trade !" That voice belonged to another Hufflepuff, named Bones.

"There was something about interrogation procedures !"

"Something else about Hit-Wizards report forms, too."

"Yes, yes, very good," said the professor, still smiling. "Who is responsible for said policies ?"

"Scamander... Leach, now that he's back to the Improper Use of Magic Office... whoever heads the Special Procedures Committee -"

"Now, now, Miss Bones. I did not ask who happened to sign the final draft of said laws. I asked who was responsible."

Bones sat down, looking like she didn't quite understand. Cal nudged Bellatrix, and he wrote a short note for her on his parchment.

"It was Bartemius Crouch, sir," said Bella, who had gone back to her old habits and propped herself up on the head of the unfortunate chap seated in front of her.

"Five points to Slytherin, Miss Black. You may sit down. Mr Crouch, as you should all know, now heads the Auror Office. Ten years ago, he was still sitting in one of my classes as you are now, filling endless scrolls of parchment on countercurses, occasionally forgetting to hand in his essays, answering exam questions with inanities such as 'the best way to get rid of a Boggart is a Stunning Hex'..."

The whole class laughed. There was something reassuring in thinking of young Ministry mover-and-changer Crouch as someone just like them.

"Do you know," he continued, "ten years ago, I was demonstrating to the seventh-year students some rather useful curses and, to test their reasoning skills, I asked the class what they would do faced with an actual Dark Wizard – if the person casting the curse was not their fellow student, as I had set it up, but a real enemy. Would you know what Crouch said ? Why, he said he would not let a Dark Wizard the time to cast a curse he would have to counter. He would strike first, when he would have the advantage of surprise, and could not be countered.

"And I asked – I ask you now – would you then not count as a Dark Wizard yourself ?

"And Crouch answered – no, no. He said, in dangerous situations dangerous decisions must be taken. He said – and in this I take no small amount of pride – that he had learned the proper way to defend one's ideals in my class, and that there was more to it than passing the Ministry exam, which, by the way, you all will, since they do need Hit-Wizards at the rate those are going.

"I do not have you duel in case you are faced with some Dark Wizard. First, it is very unlikely such a Dark Wizard would reveal himself to you and nicely tailor his attacks to the Ministry's curriculum. But more importantly, duelling fills a role in our society that no other professor can quite inform you about. How does the Ministry put that ?"

"_Magic is Might_," said Cal out loud, though he had not meant to.

"Exactly," said the professor, and he repeated the motto as though he was trying to feel the sound of the words rolling off his tongue. "For next week, there will be the usual curse/countercurse practice and I also expect an essay from each of you on the origins of that motto and its current applications. The future Mrs Runcorn would be well advised to use her current name so that I can properly mark her essay."

"Professor ?"

It was the boy with the wide forehead who'd done the Slughorn imitation – the Hufflepuff prefect, one Tonks, who had perpetually unkempt blond hair and a cheeky smile. The professor nodded to him.

"Why do you tell us all this ?"

Most of the class looked at Tonks with a mix of pity and incredulity. Of course, as this was the very base of the Wizarding World's functioning, it might have been a bit beyond his abilities, but Cal wondered how he could make it to fifth year without seeing the importance of the lesson.

"Because, Tonks," said the professor patiently, "I do not teach for the pleasure of correcting the same mistakes year after year. No," and his voice then grew much softer, "I teach because someday you – even you, with some luck, Tonks – will be trying to find something to do in the world, and many people will stand in your way. The only way to attain the sort of world we all want – a world free of the trouble, the ignorance, the restrictions that wrongfully face skilled wizards – is to fight for it. In other words, Tonks, I am trying to show those of you who wish to have a life the way to achieve it."

Most of the Slytherins, including Lucius Malfoy, who normally merely looked bored in class, were listening with awed attention. Cal himself was suddenly more motivated to remedy his lifelong incompetence in the subject, as this was, he was well aware, the way to make the world what it ought to be; the way to bring peace, to bring order, and perhaps to gain his family's respect. Rodolphus in front of him had taken far more notes than was usual; and he had the fleeting idea Bellatrix wouldn't shut up for all evening. Even Andromeda, who shied away by principle from every subject her sister excelled in, had seemed thoroughly entranced by the idea of fighting her way to her dreams.

As his friends were increasingly busy with their renewed interest in Defence, Cal soon took to spending more time with Sarah. She was as full of conviction as Bellatrix on a good day, but, and to Cal this was a great improvement, much less insistent on fighting for the cause; and mostly they talked.

They liked to take walks during these meetings, primarily so that there wouldn't be talk at the time they spent thus engaged. Cal had had little interest in the myriad paths through the castle, the paintings and the statues, the ghosts and the old stones, the stairs and the empty classrooms, and the smell of history that pervaded the place, for he had all these things at home, in Cygnus' house in the country; but he found that he enjoyed discovering hidden corridors and hideouts. He talked to every new portrait he met, which amused Sarah greatly, as he showed them no less manners than he would a person.

On one particular Saturday, as they turned in haste into a fourth-floor corridor after they'd glimpsed Rita Skeeter, the seventh-year who'd tried to convince the Headmaster to allow a special Hogwarts wireless broadcast for student news called "the Witching Hour", and who'd spent most of the past week trying to gather appropriate gossip, they met the laugh of a lady in white, who was depicted in the middle of a field of heather, a crown of leaves on her head.

"There's no hurry," said the lady between giggles. "Youth doesn't last long enough as it is: you oughtn't to spend most of it running."

Cal apologised, and introduced himself and Sarah, asking whether they'd disturbed the quiet of the portrait's afternoon.

"No. But I certainly disturbed yours, didn't I ?" She giggled some more. "Don't mind me ! You see, I'm supposed to be a summer nymph here." She took off her crown to show it to them, and then set it back on her head, where it seemed to blossom with yellow flowers. "I just love all that is fresh and happy ! All that is spontaneous ! All the children loving and laughing when the day's still light. So, you made my afternoon, rather ! I hadn't seen lovely children around here for... oh... at least a week..."

Cal had little desire to imagine what these "lovely children" were getting up to, and prepared to inquire some more into Summer Nymph's history, but Sarah was quicker.

"Aren't you a little bit old for a nymph ?"

Indeed the lady bore little resemblance to the smiling maidens that ordinarily played in fields, clearings or rivers in the paintings he had seen. She looked to be around his mother's age, although her expression couldn't have been more different; unlike his mother, there were a few wrinkles at the corners of her ever-smiling mouth.

"Aren't you quite young for such a curious imp ?" answered the Summer Nymph, and Sarah scowled at her. "Truly," she continued, "children these days. My last visitor said as much. 'Boy,' I told him, 'do smile ! There is no better age for smiling than yours,' and he gave me that irreverent expression I am now seeing on you. Very unbecoming, by the by. Old before his time, this one – like you I suppose -" she now said to Cal, "aren't you just the little gentleman ?"

"That's nice of you to say – but rather my parents would say I am not old enough," said Cal.

"Oh, I _like_ you," said the Nymph, perhaps because he'd try to gratify her with a short grin.

"Though – forgive me for saying this – you aren't quite as pretty as my other young visitor. A pity, really – with hair so blond and cheeks so round, he would have made a perfect little faun. Would you tell him to come back if you see him ? I called him little Bertie, he should be no younger than you, though a little shorter."

It took all of Cal's good breeding to prevent himself from laughing at the idea of Merryweather being called "pretty" and "little faun" by a middle-aged dead woman. And it would take some more to refrain himself from addressing him as 'Bertie' when, and if, he passed the message.

Sarah, who had no such restraint, tittered. "And how long," she said, "have you known Bertie?"

"A few months. He was very excited at the beginning, always rushing in and gone just as fast..."

He'd been there months – and almost disappeared every time ? That was, Cal believed, some luck he was having here.

"So," he asked, "he must have been very surprised when you first talked to him. You are a most surprising sight, at any rate." Sarah crossed her arms over her chest and leaned over the opposite wall.

"Yes. Why, he was just examining this mirror to your friend's left, and I told him 'you look quite fine, trust me'... he made such a jump ! He mustn't receive compliments too often..."

Cal could see a perfectly valid reason why Merryweather's appearance wouldn't attract compliments, but decided against sharing it with the Nymph.

As early as he could the next day, after a special lesson in which Cal had managed to Body-Bind his father mid-spell, an accomplishment that he felt well deserved the reward of uncovering Merryweather's secret, Cal was back before the Summer Nymph's mirror.

It seemed a perfectly ordinary mirror, with no secret passage in sight. Well, he hadn't exactly expected there to be a sign engraved "Secret Passage to Hogsmeade: Show the Mirror some Blood", but it wouldn't have hurt. Nor was there a suspicious hole or spot in its simple golden frame, or in the silver-glass still and cold as the lake in the middle of the Scottish winter, where stared back at him the image of a dark-haired youth with thin furrowed brows.

Cal tried touching the glass, and merely ordering it to reveal its passage, without effect (the latter might be because he was too polite with it; "will you show me the tunnel you hide so well ?" he asked). Eventually it was the thought of the frozen lake that brought him to understanding.

"_Scindo_," he said, and while the surface of the mirror was not rent, a ripple appeared in it: a growing dark circle in the middle of his reflection within which only dirt could be seen. Cal smiled and put a finger, then a hand through the opened passageway, which accomodated to engulf all of his body, until from the other side he could only see the mirror's split surface, which closed down with a rushing sound as he took a few steps down the tunnel.

There were little uses for parting water, especially as running water couldn't be affected, but the spell worked very well on water-like surfaces of all sorts.

Down in Hogsmeade he emerged in an abandoned house. Cal crushed a spider, not without some disgust, before setting off for the Hog's Head.

Breaking rules that obviously made Cal feel particularly worried – so much so that when he crossed the bartender's gaze he could have sworn the latter had clearly seen him from across the room, and would be informing the school of his Sunday activities – and his eyes darted over his surroundings as though he was expecting to be found out. He had thought this time to put on his old robes and mess up his hair a bit, so that he would not seem too unusual a guest.

Almost immediately a figure in brown, hooded robes of good quality approached him, and Cal recognised with relief the man from the last time.

"So you came !" he said, as though they had an appointment. "This is the right day – he is around, if you would come to him. Not with your friend today ?"

"We had a row."

"Did you now ?" It seemed to Cal that the man behind the hood was examining his features with attention. "Well, he is willing to see you all the same. Follow."

So Cal followed, hustling to follow his informant within the crowd. At last they arrived to a back door he was enjoined to pass through, and then they walked along a few bending streets until they came to what looked to be an abandoned house much like the one the passage had opened into. Inside there were, thankfully, no spiders; but there seemed to be no one about either.

The stranger whistled and was joined by three more men and one woman. One of the men had a hood, just like the friendly stranger, but did not smile; one Cal didn't recognise; and the last he almost gasped at, because he was all too famous in recent days. Balding, his eyes obscured by sandy hair streaked with grey; a crooked smile; slight-shouldered, with his bare arms covered with scars; he was a magical creature trader whose services had often been used, back when it was legal, by Arcturus Black. His name was Ferus Meister.

"This is our most esteemed partner F.," introduced the stranger ceremoniously. "Friends, this is another boy I met – or should I say he met me..."

Cal almost introduced himself, before noticing that the stranger had not actually given anyone's name.

Meister looked Cal up and down, taking a long look at his robes, before slowly saying, "And is there something we can do for you, boy ? I'm afraid we only take gold."

"That won't be a problem," assured Cal, and Meister, the unknown man and the woman looked at him with approbation. "There's a friend of mine you might have been acquainted with – he recommended you to me – the name's Merryweather, yes, a decent fellow all considered..." Cal paused to give his interlocutors the time to volunteer information, but the hoods stayed firmly down and the lips closed.

"He's asked me to take over his deal," Cal moved on carefully. "He's been almost caught by a portrait, you see."

Meister considered him for some time, before letting out a loud laugh like a roar.

"Well, boy, that's a nice story," he said. And at once he took out his wand and Cal was projected back a few feet. "No one's ever told you not to lie ?"

As a matter of fact, Cal's father had told him so once; only once, because he had seemed so serious and intense at the time that it seemed to Cal that he could read the lies in his mind before he bothered speaking them, and Cal had been very careful to tell him only the truth forever hence.

But Meister wasn't Cal's father; there was no light of knowledge in his dark eyes, and Cal thought that he wasn't nearly as clever as he was brutal. "Now, Mr Meister," he said calmly, pulling himself up. "Don't make such assumptions about the Ministry's chosen contact. "

"A spy !" exclaimed the man Cal hadn't recognised, and the friendly stranger raised his hand to silence him.

"Is that so ?" growled Meister. "And what would you tell the Ministry ? That I told you not to lie ?"

"It depends," said Cal genially. "After all, _they_ never said they wanted the truth. But don't you think Merryweather would tell, after he's had what you lot are providing for him ? As I said – he's quite a decent fellow."

"Sounds like the Ministry's 'new generation' hasn't lost the good old sense for diplomacy," sneered the man Cal didn't recognise. "No one they won't sell out if the pressure's enough, right ?"

"Now, Keeper, let us listen to what our new friend thinks to be his best interest, will you ?" scolded the friendly stranger. "Say, Ministry Contact, is the reason you might not tell the Ministry all that happened that you are not, to use your words, 'a decent fellow' ? Or is there something more convincing ?"

"A man I admire used Mr Meister's services a lot, some time ago," said Cal. "Arcturus Black. I stand by him more than them."

Arcturus's name mellowed Meister a bit, for he put his wand back into his pocket. "That's a good one you've got this time, Seeker," he said to the friendly stranger. "Got all the right connections at least. So what d'you propose, boy ? Neatly keep the Ministry off-track while we finish up our business here ?"

"I'd be glad to," said Cal, "as a service to Arcturus. Of course," he added with a contrite look, "if Merryweather's deal's concluded without a hitch I don't have a lot of leverage on _him_."

The five adults exchanged looks.

"Fine," said Meister. "That's what you're going to do. You'll pretend you're going to tell on him because you think the plan is too dangerous. You need to prevent him from coming down here the week after next. You'll find me someone else willing to take his purchase – it's a baby Sphinx by the way, pretty valuable, so they'd better be made of gold – and we'll deliver it the Wednesday after that at exactly midnight. We'll see you once the kid is dealt with for the next arrangements. That all right with you ?"

Cal nodded. This was going much better than he had thought.

"We have a deal, Mr Meister," he said. "Thank you. I shall be sure to tell Arcturus how helpful you've been."

"Visit again," said the one they'd called Seeker as he was leaving.

Cal turned to him, and stopped. "Goodbye to you," he said. "But – they called you Seeker. What is it you seek ?"

"Goodbye," simply answered the Seeker with a smile.

As Cal left the house he was overcome by a sudden feeling of dread, as though everything that could go wrong had. He was lost, he was caught, he had nowhere to return – his family would be shamed – everyone must already know -

But he was taken out of his dark thoughts by the sight of a dozen figures cloaked in grey, roaming all around the village and emptying the streets as people quickly retreated within their houses.

Were they – were they Dementors ?

Soon after they passed him, he heard an otherworldly screech, and they scattered, followed by a streak of silver in the sky, that suddenly did not seem quite so drained of daylight. Cal carefully followed it leaning against the walls; as they turned into the High Street, he peered around the corner, where he was faced with a scene that did not belong in the tranquil village of Hogsmeade.

The Dementors had gathered again in the middle of the street, completely obstructing the walkway; but they could not advance further, because facing them was a big silver phoenix that looked made of mist.

Five of the Dementors motioned towards it, and it was then that Cal found out these were not Dementors at all: they walked instead of gliding, and they soon took out wands from underneath the grey cloaks that they aimed at the silver bird.

They cast a spell at it, and all their voices, and the screeches of the Dementors, mixed together so that Cal couldn't recognise the words; but before it could it, it was dispelled in a flash of white light, and in front of the phoenix stood a tall wizard nobody could have mistaken for another: it was their Headmaster.

"What is this !" he said. "I do not know you, I believe."

The figure in the center took a step forward and spoke. "This is a special mission of the Ministry of Magic," he said. "We do not do forewarnings. Or identification."

"What a wonderful way for the Ministry to present themselves indeed," said the Headmaster sternly. "Secret missions that have the local population – a great many of Britain's wizards – scurrying in haste into their houses to protect themselves from your slaves."

"It wasn't planned," said the other man. "They must have sensed unusual Dark activity -"

"If there is, as you say, 'Dark activity' being performed near my school, I do not need the Ministry to handle it. We have, I assure you, several competent witches and wizards on the premises."

"Oh, come on, Dumbledore," burst out another man, walking forward, but being stopped before he reached the Headmaster by the silver phoenix interposing itself. "You handled Dark activity so well the last time you were asked. Styx is trained for that job. He would not let the Dementors harm anyone around. That is why we have come ourselves, after all."

"Calm down, Phlegethon," said Styx. "It's true that the Headmaster of Hogwarts has complete responsibility over the security of the grounds. However," he said more snidely, "Hogsmeade wasn't, last I checked, on the school grounds."

"I have no idea on whose authority you are here, or what flimsy suspicion caused the Ministry to unleash you and your creatures, but it is unfounded and your work ends here," said the Headmaster firmly.

"The Headmaster sounds very familiar with what is and isn't Dark activity," mused a woman to Styx's right. "Why, one would almost believe he knows exactly the source of it – and why it should not be feared. Is that not so ?"

"Yes," conceded Styx, "it is as though he had a reason to let the Dark Lord leave after all. Is he really protecting innocent schoolchildren, I wonder ?"

"For the abyss gazes into you also," recited a second woman solemnly.

The other four turned to her for a second, but soon were facing the Headmaster again.

"That is quite enough," he said. The silver phoenix suddenly took off, rushing down onto the pack of grey cloaks; and while the five humans stayed put, the Dementors retreated back several feet.

"If you have genuine doubts, then you may enounce them now, if you order your creatures back; otherwise you may remain silent and leave."

"This is confidential, as I said," answered Styx. "I have no explanation to give. Ask the Minister if you must."

"Quite sad," said the Headmaster. "We are, I believe, on the same side. I could have helped. But this is your choice, of course," he added quite cheerfully.

"There was no choice," said the first woman. But the phoenix did not budge; and the five cloaked wizards turned heel and left, the Dementors following suit.

* * *

><p>Night had fallen on January the twenty-second. The full moon lit the sky from above, as did the city lights from below; and on this lonely winter night, at three in the morning, many people were still busy with work or leisure.<p>

Among the people who weren't was the Prime Minister, who fitfully slept dreaming a strange dream wherein all of Parliament suddenly turned into an angry pack of wolves that proceeded to tear each other apart regardless of party allegiance. He woke up just as he was being chased down a narrowing corridor by the leader of the opposition, whose eerily human eyes were fixated on him animated by an entirely inhuman look, and found out he was unable to move.

His surroundings were still dark. He tried to close his eyelids and go back to a necessary rest – but they wouldn't obey, and while he was busy mentally cursing the stress of his position, he heard a low growl.

The Prime Minister had no history of sleep paralysis, and he was understandably shaken by this unfamiliar experience. The growl grew louder, and in addition to it it seemed he now heard voices. He struggled to think of proper scientific explanations for his predicament. His mother would have said he needed to go to sleep earlier, on which count she might not have been entirely wrong.

And then, a large grey beast that he thought might have been a dog jumped on him. He could still not scream nor move at all, though he felt the pain from the animal's weight. There was a much louder growl.

At this point his wife woke up. There is a proper reaction to seeing a large grey wolf perched upon your bed, and ready to make a meal of your husband; but she was unaware of it, and thus elected to grasp a large silver lamp and pound it as hard as she could onto the animal's head. It howled in pain, immediately jumped to the ground and let out an almost-human gasp. At once a hand emerged from the shadows to grab the animal's neck; and soon as that the growling and howling and gasping stopped, the Prime Minister recovered his voice, and they were gone.

The aftermath of this kerfuffle would be very boring to detail; suffices to say that what Head Auror Bartemius Crouch saw when he went to enact damage control and observe the crime scene was in extraordinary disarray, and it took the most persuasive of his team to convince the Prime Minister, once his wife was dutifully Obliviated, that he'd been the victim of a peculiarly strong hallucination. "Happens to everyone one day or the other," said the wizard in the tone of an expert. "Of course, the experience is rarely so strong. Do you usually take drugs or medication ?"

But the part of the early morning that most affected Crouch was the state of the floor. Indeed, once the furniture knocked down by the scoundrels in their escape had been set to their proper place once more, a message awaited on the ground – three simple, short words in good English:

MAGIC IS MIGHT

Crouch restrained his hand from shaking by keeping it firmly on his wand, wondering how the Minister was going to explain this.


	6. The Friends of Ferus Meister

**Author's Note:** Well, it certainly took long enough ! Thankfully, I have now finished my thesis, which may allow me to write about something else than science for once. It's also the longest chapter to date, almost twice Chapter 1... at any rate, I apologise for the delay, and as always, feedback and criticism are greatly appreciated.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 6<strong>

**The Friends of Ferus Meister**

Walter Widdershins was running late. Between Dumbledore's interference in Operation Night Flight, the Wizengamot's growing fright and timidity and the delicate matter of explaining the situation to his Muggle counterpart, he was in his opinion the busiest Minister for Magic to ever have been in office. Well, there was that chap in the 1700's that had to deal with the fallback of the Statute of Secrecy, but at least his cabinet was not nearly as divided as Walter's.

Crouch, though still unsuccessful in getting to the source of the recent troubles, grew angrier by the minute; he had left Walter with the Prime Minister to have some words with his superior, Millicent Bagnold.

"Are you well, Minister ?"

"Yes, thank you – no thanks to your people. My wife says she has been having nightmares about a wolf, ever since they visited to calm my hallucinations, as you said they were. If it is a curse, or something else you magic folk do -"

"Cursing Muggles is against our laws."

"So is trespassing, I take it ?"

Walter was taken aback by his counterpart's biting tone.

"I am sorry for interrupting you again so soon, after we last spoke in October -" he said.

"Yes. Speaking of that," continued the Muggle, "I must go back on my words. I cannot, at the moment, help you find your terrorist."

"But it is the Dark Lord !" said Walter, scandalised.

"We happen to have a number of political issues of our own. And are you doing much to help with those ?" Walter gave a contrite look. "It looked that way to me, too. Good luck on your search. Please, ask for an appointment next time. It is most disconcerting to have you just barge into my office."

"Greenfield !" yelled Walter at his Senior Undersecretary as he ran to his next meeting. "Tell the Unspeakables we're suspending Night Flight until we find out just who the Death Eaters are. And I want people on watch in Hogsmeade, but they aren't to set foot on the school's grounds. And owl Dumbledore ! Tell Bagnold I'll see her after lunch."

There, thought Walter, that ought to pacify everybody for a short while. With luck, by then our Dark Lord and cronies will be headed for Azkaban.

* * *

><p>Swooping shadows in grey cloaks descended upon Cal's head; they passed through him, as though he wasn't quite solid, and filled the school grounds with their screams and the children's. Andromeda was encircled, but she defended herself adequately; whereas Sarah, only facing one Dementor, was unmoving, and Cal tried to reach out to her – it was strange, he thought, how he didn't feel the fear he had in Hogsmeade – but she was too remote; she did not see him nor answer, indeed she turned away, towards the Dementor, and it bent down -<p>

"What if you faced large numbers ?"

Cal opened his eyes to find himself in his Defence class, where his father was once more lecturing, holding his audience, save one, utterly captivated.

"Would any of you have an idea ? What is the best weapon to handle many enemies ?" There was a pause. "Well, great Auror material, I see. Reassuring."

Tonks raised his hand.

"Well, I think the Confundus Charm would be dead useful," he said. "Hide and get your enemies to attack each other. A house divided cannot stand, and all that."

Many admiring murmurs came from the Hufflepuff side of the class. In front, their teacher stood still and seemed to consider the answer.

"I am pleased someone had a better strategy than silence. Silence is the worst way to handle large groups, if you will note. They are too tempted to make it permanent." No one laughed, although more than a few students raised their heads from their sheets of parchment, looking uncomfortable.

"Fear," he continued, "is by far the most effective. Indeed facing his fears every man is alone, and in their isolation it is quite easy to pick out the weak." A good, Ministry-approved strategy, thought Cal, who couldn't shake off his dream.

"On the weak magic is wasted," said their teacher. "It does not matter how many spells a weak wizard knows, as in weakness they will not come to him. Therefore, if any of you were to be found in a moment of fear, already overcome by yourself, no countercurse could help you. Inducing fear is even easier on groups than during duels: in groups the fear of one very easily transfers to the many. There are quite a few curses specialising in just -"

"Sir !" interrupted Worth, who earned herself a few glares from Slytherins eager to lap up the wisdom. "Sir, there's legal ways to do that, right ?"

"Do not interrupt, Miss Worth,"he said less genially. "And yes. Of course."

"Of course," repeated the Hufflepuffs, whose qualms against the lesson at once were quelled.

After the class Cal thought to get Merryweather alone to fulfill the task Mr Meister had given him. It had worried him, though not as much as his brief encounter with the Dementors, and all the more because he had had no one to relate it to. Secrets were hard on Cal; they were equivalent to standing alone, and Cal agreed with his father that alone he was far too weak.

Merryweather, who doubtless thought the same, if being a Gryffindor did not preclude him from thinking at all, did not leave his stupid bodyguard's side until the next morning. It was a Saturday and the day of a Quidditch match, but Cal had well laid his trap; he would go to the match, then Avery, one of the many first-years who idolised Bellatrix, was to distract Malfoy by directing him to (suitably provoked) troublemakers – during which time he would slip out. He had warned the Nymph that Merryweather took the passage to visit his secret older lover, which he hoped would generate enough of an argument that he could find his rival unaware.

As Cal reached the fourth floor, he slowed his steps. He had succeeded in returning to the castle unnoticed, except by a moody painting who had yelled at him for running in the corridor. Now, carefully sneaking against the wall, he paid attention to the slightest sound.

"You poor dear !" said the Nymph. "And all for naught ?"

"Yes," answered Merryweather. "My friends can't take these 'accidents', as they call them, seriously. But I keep telling them: one day it's the Muggles, and next it's their relatives, and then it's all of us. They keep saying we're safe here. Well, given what I hear _some_ say, the enemy's words if not his curses have reached us already."

For a moment Cal's plan was no longer his concern. What were Merryweather's sources, and was it worth letting what he overheard reach the Ministry ?

"But love is the province of the young," said the Nymph. "Violence and hate and words crueler than curses, those have no place in a child's world."

"I take it you haven't been a child in a long time."

Cal ran into the corridor before Merryweather had stopped talking, wand out. "_Petrific-_"

"_Expelliarmus_ !"

Cal was propulsed backwards; to the best of his ability he tried to find his footing, lunged at his wand; his fingers brushed the wood, he was nearly there.

"_Impedimenta_ !"

Cal had had the time to fetch his wand back, but no sooner had he closed his hand around it that the jinx hit; he was frozen mid-jump for an instant, and Merryweather, smugly smiling, prepared to leave.

But it had been Merryweather's flaw that he too quickly judged a duel done, or so Cal thought. Instead of weighing the situation or attacking him with a meaner curse, he had left it at that; Cal fell down, scrambled to his feet, and ran after his opponent.

He was interrupted by a slow pain in his left ankle, and, unable to stop Merryweather by physical means, resorted to aiming a Jelly-Legs Jinx at his back. He missed, but attracted the boy's attention, and soon enough, they were fighting again, Cal dodging best as he could by shifting his weight one way or the other, and occasionally throwing out hexes that never seemed to work.

Duels are more like arguments, remembered Cal. What matters is the timing... and the adversary you have.

Cal slowed his movement, waited as though tired, and was hit right in the chest by a Ringing-Ears Jinx. He knelt down, breathing slowly, relaxing his fingers on his wand, lowering his gaze. Predictably Merryweather stopped fighting: in turn he let his wand fall at his side.

He wasn't yet smiling, so Cal waited, cringing in pain that was half-pretense, encouraging his belief, and soon he saw it, and it was a wider smile than last time, too. Still holding his wand with unsteady fingers, he brought it in Merryweather's general direction. He could take his time to aim, an advantage he would not have had during the rest of the duel, and said under his breath, "_Petrificus Totalus_," not bothering to look up in order to keep the other boy unaware.

After a minute passed, Cal thought it was safe to rise, and found he couldn't. His ankle again, surely – he would have to have that healed, he knew no healing spells himself – but he couldn't look up at Merryweather, either, until it dawned on him.

"You're not the only one who learns from his mistakes, you know," said Merryweather in a tone that didn't suit him, neither angry nor triumphant. And then his footsteps echoed on the ground, loud then softer, softer, softer still; Cal was left alone and kneeling on a stone floor somewhere he shouldn't have been, and only then was he afraid.

It lasted a while, long enough that Cal would surely have had cramps had he been able to feel his legs. He was trapped in his own body and at the mercy of whoever would find him first – and in deep trouble, for everyone would be able to see that he wasn't there at the end of the match.

Thankfully his rescue came in the form of the Nymph's admonitions ("Hurry, girls ! Have you never run before ? Are these slender legs of yours made of lead ?"), and the girls that followed –

Andromeda, who broke his own spell and immediately sussed the details of his failed scheme out, and Sarah, who remained farther down the corridor looking worried.

"Taking a leaf out of Bella's book ?" asked Andromeda when the three of them proceeded down to their common room before dinner. Cal wasn't sure there was any limit to the depth of his humiliation, both in being caught breaking a rule and in losing a fight he'd always thought he could win, and instead of trying to convince her he redirected the conversation to Merryweather's own failings.

"Did you know what kind of people he's consorting with ?" he said. "Oh, I don't mean the usual. Did you really think he was just going out to the library ? That mirror leads to Hogsmeade. Remember when he threatened us, Sarah ?" Sarah nodded. "I knew what he was trying to do and wanted to have him_ in flagrante_ to tell Malfoy. And then he attacked me." It might have been an outright lie, but it was bound to grab Andie's attention.

"What ?" she said at once. "What kind of stunt is he pulling exactly ?"

Cal paraphrased what he'd overheard of his conversation with the Nymph, and Sarah related their encounter in the library.

"I think he might be trying to get out Wednesday next. You know, with what he said about the accidents, I think what he's planning might be... somewhat dangerous for all of us -"

"So we can't trap him on our own," completed Andie. "I can give him a detention for what he did to you this afternoon. Then, if he slips out, I'll act like I haven't noticed and you can tail him."

"He left me wounded on the floor once," Cal pointed out. "I'm not exactly -"

"Let me finish. I'll go cry to Slughorn that I saw somebody run in the direction of the Great Hall and it's almost curfew. Bella can arrange to be there, praise him for being a great role-model, get him to spend time talking. When I come in, she can run ahead telling Sluggy she's helping. Once he gets his canapé-fueled body up the stairs and sees the gates open, he'll follow. During that time you and Bella can knock the kid out. Slughorn will arrive, you run back to your dorm, and I'll tell whoever is on rounds to look the other way. Problem solved, and Slytherin might even get points for it."

Cal had to admit her planning was much better than his. To start with, two on one gave him far better odds – and it also gave him an idea regarding the Sphinx...

"That's a really clever plan, Andromeda," said Sarah. "How do you get sneaky like that ?"

"Try living with my family. You'll feel the need to sneak around soon enough, I guarantee."

"Like Sirius ?" asked Cal, who was reminded of the defiant little boy running up the stairs at New Year's.

"Sirius's something else. I think he's looking forward to being here, with people who don't want him to be the only hope of the noble house of Black, or believe whatever my aunt says about him."

On Wednesday, the excitement and faint apprehension accompanying the execution of yet another discredit tactic saw Cal quite unable to concentrate in either History of Magic or Transfigurations, and Professor McGonagall told him off for mistakenly Vanishing his textbook rather than the ball laid on his table. At dinner he gobbled up little carrots and barely kept track of Rosier and Avery's gossip about some new student club thought up by the Hufflepuffs, and he tried to write a Potions essay from eight to ten-thirty, checking the clock so often that Crabbe asked whether he'd got something brewing.

You bet I have, thought Cal as he left the dungeons. Instead of heading to the classroom Andromeda was holding Merryweather's detention in, he turned towards the Great Hall and left earlier than planned. The girls' assistance made him feel much safer, but for the first time Cal was ashamed not to be doing it on his own, ashamed that alone he always failed. Next time, he promised himself.

It was dark out, as could be expected of nights during the Scottish winter, and Cal, in his school robes, walked invisible as a Thestral from the castle to the Forbidden Forest. Through the windows to Ogg's quarters warm light filtered, and Cal avoided it, passing instead behind the house near his assistant's room, which was unlit. Cal's idea grew more precise. So the gamekeeper's assistant, that friend of all kinds of monsters, roamed around on that kind of night ? That was how Cal would unburden himself of the Sphinx.

Not deep into the Forest, he was jerked backwards by the weight of a large hand on his shoulder.

"If that isn't Black's little friend," said Meister, grinning beneath his hood. "I checked your references. Leaves only the gold."

Hesitantly, Cal pulled his purse out of his winter cloak. It was light, too light perhaps, Cal realised too late. He had no idea how much an illegal Sphinx cost. Now you're going to have to talk fast, he thought.

"I asked for gold. A Niffler wouldn't even smell that from twenty feet away," he said with disdain.

"Look well fed," observed Meister. "Nice new cloak. Nice new shoes, too. And that can't get me my gold ? Won't your Ministry pay for your safety ?"

"I—uh, it's late and my friends are waiting," said Cal. "Curfew, you know. Do you do credit ?"

"Not to someone your age. And what's that, your friends are waiting ? Scared they might be waiting too long ?"

"You mustn't have too much time left either, with the watch on Hogsmeade," said Cal, trying a different angle. "We could settle that later. Once the Ministry's calmed down. What about six months ? I could have the gold in six months."

Near them, a sound like branches being piled upon caught both their minds. So early, thought Cal. Merryweather shouldn't have left yet. He was supposed to be here for eleven. He didn't know I'd be early. Meister retreated away from the source of the noise, as though he too feared discovery.

"You won't be at school in six months," mentioned Meister, his smile revealing yellow teeth, pointy like a wolf's fangs. "Far less safe, the world outside school."

"I'm aware."

"It seems so," said Meister. "Six months. It's still January – so that would be July, July the thirty-first. If I don't have my gold on that day – say six o'clock, to respect your curfew," he said with derision, "you'll be very aware indeed."

Cal had barely left when Meister's voice behind a large tree convinced him to take a small detour.

Hidden in a leafless bush, Cal could see Meister and – that had to be the gamekeeper's assistant, Hagrid, what an odd time for a stroll – odder still was that they addressed each other as old acquaintances.

"Hagrid, my boy," said Meister, more jovial now. "You've got... taller."

"Mr – Mr – Bagsworth, was it ?" Cal sniggered at the fake name. "I've got Aragog still, d'yeh remember him ? Got inter a bit o' trouble wi' him though... that's bein' young I s'pose... will do tha' ter yeh..."

"And I take it you're here for the Sphinx !" Meister said, and Cal imagined his smile widening by the second. "An excellent specimen... my best... let me call him..."

Meister whistled, and Cal suddenly realised something had been breathing behind him. Heart racing, he turned, slowly, unable to make out anything in the darkness but trees and a strange, strong scent – and then something four-legged, the size of a large dog, toppled him, running over his chest. Its claws pierced through his cloak, its paws were wet with snow. It had the body of a lion, but a scarred thin head that seemed to belong to a boy his age – and then Meister whistled again and it was gone, sitting next to him like an obedient pet, and Cal got to his feet and ran towards the castle, away from the beast and whatever else hid between the trees.

He ran so fast and so breathlessly that he soon came into collision with a large tree – that, Cal understood to his horror as he lay crumpled over Merryweather's chest, wasn't a tree at all.

"You again ! Well, that explains the tracks," he said, pushing Cal off him and drawing his wand.

Were all plans thus foiled by bad timing ?

"Yes," Merryweather kept going, "I should've known you were all sneaking and lying and intriguing with the best of them. That's all you Slytherins can do, righ-"

But Merryweather never finished his thoughts about Slytherin House, because a bright ray of red light hit him in the back, and Bella jumped down from somewhere Cal couldn't see.

"Mission accomplished," she said. "Good thing he likes talking." Good thing you don't, thought Cal. "Run away, Slughorn's coming. And erase your tracks ! He saw them and I had to pretend like they were his," she said motioning towards Merryweather's body, that she dragged towards the path between trees.

And run Cal did, periodically making wide gestures with his wand to flatten the snow on the ground behind him, and he made it back to the castle right on the dot of eleven, only a bit late for bed; but with Slughorn tending to Merryweather back in the forest, passage to the dungeons ought to have been safe.

Down the stairs he met Tonks, who was apparently finishing up his rounds and heading to his own common room, and who stopped him.

"Andromeda said-" started Cal.

"I know. Wow – what's _happened_ to you ?" Cal looked down at himself and noticed rips in his cloak and branches that remained stuck to the wool on the back. His socks were wet, and he looked like he'd had a bad encounter with a yeti.

"I fell down. While running. I really should go -"

"Are they still here ?"

"Who ?"

Tonks looked at him as though he had grown a second nose. "The guys he was supposed to meet," he said. "You went there to try and protect us from that cabal, didn't you ? So are they gone ? What were they ?"

"They're gone. They were... a faction that was going to procure him some sort of weapon," said Cal. Sphinxes were weapons, weren't they ? "He's lost contact with them."

"Wow," said Tonks again. "Are they the reason you ... fell down ?"

"You could say that. Now, you're a prefect, Tonks, I'm sure you don't want to still be chatting with me when Slughorn gets back. Good night. Thank you for the help." Cal smiled, as though he was sincerely relieved that Tonks had been there. It did not seem to wholly alleviate the other boy's doubts, and perhaps he found the story too interesting to be true, but it was the best Cal could do at the moment, and he turned to smile at Tonks once more before leaving.

Merryweather was awarded a month's detention for sneaking into the Forest; Bellatrix later told Cal that Slughorn had been very uncomfortable when they found him, until it emerged that the boy was only unconscious, and that he'd looked positively horrified when Bella informed him that he'd been trying to get some secret group on Hogwart's grounds.

February arrived with a chilly wind. After the unfortunate results of his last attempts at using magic to defend himself, Cal had entirely given up on that O.W.L, and found his time better suited to practising subjects he understood.

"You ought to have recognised that one," said Andie. Cal looked to the rune she was pointing in their textbook.

"Is that _ehwaz_ ?"

"Where have you been the last two years and a half ? All right, so that's _mannaz_," she said. "Don't expect you to get all the questions right, but still !"

Cal noticed Andromeda's answers were hardly perfect either, as evidenced by how she claimed on her parchment that _wynn_'s meaning had something to do with justice. Cal freely admitted that the section on the runes' meanings and magical uses went beyond his head; he much preferred working on translations, and had to refrain himself from gloating to Andie when he looked over her version of what Beedle's hairy-hearted warlock would sound like in English.

"I don't think the original warlock would do that to the maiden, Andie," he said. "Well, not if Beedle was writing him."

"Oh, shut up," she said. "What tale's yours from ? The man committing suicide over his dead lover is all sorts of cliché."

"The one with the three brothers. It's an old cliché, I suppose."

"I did the Fountain of Fair Fortune, too, if you'll look at it," she offered. Cal struggled with some of the runes, but she seemed to have done a much better job with that one – except for a point.

"Wait, since when does that witch marry the Muggle in the story ?"

Cal looked over to the runes, but it seemed a faithful translation – though entirely different from that he remembered from his childhood.

"I like that ending better," said Andromeda casually. "It's always happier when people fall in love and stay alive. I always thought those tales didn't have enough of it."

"You and your romantic streak," joked Cal. "And then Auntie Dru says you don't take after her at all."

"She's right. Swooning over my father's surname isn't my brand of romantic."

Cal thought Andromeda was being unfair to her parents, but, reminding himself of the way her temper flared up when confronted about it, remained silent.

"Cal !"

Cal turned in the voice's direction to see the round face of Vernus Avery, whose windswept hair and robe pockets turned inside-out were met, like so many things typical of eleven-year-old boys, with Andromeda's clear disapproval.

"I know we're not supposed to receive our post on week-ends, but there's a Ministry letter for you," he said. "Rosier thinks you're getting expelled over what happened to that Gryffindor."

"Rosier'd do well to mind his own business and stop gossiping," answered Cal, taking the letter from the younger boy's hands. "He's reminding me of Rita Skeeter."

Noticing that Avery wasn't leaving the classroom, Cal looked at him pointedly. "Well, go tell him I said that. What are you waiting for ?"

"And yet another of Bella's little fanclub," said Andie. "She's starting them younger."

Meanwhile, Cal had opened his envelope carefully, and was now looking at the notice for his first official meeting. They were scheduled once a term; that for the winter term was to occur on the second of March, on which date Cal would be excused from his classes. A roll of parchment was bundled with the notice; it contained a list of the points that most worried the Ministry about their youth, starting with "OWL-level students are woefully ignorant of their own history" - with Binns, Cal could hardly blame them - all the way to "Youth are picking up their understanding of real-world issues from each other instead of being informed by their elders", which probably meant the Ministry didn't like how little agency they had in the political affiliations of a sizeable segment of the Wizarding population.

The week passed all too quickly as Cal awaited his next meeting with Meister's people. He had completed the mission, but the difficulty it involved tempered his confidence; he wished he could bring along a friend, Sarah maybe, in their discussions she didn't seem to mind using whatever allies were needed, anyone, not to be alone with them.

But when the time came Cal found himself unaccompanied, walking up the street to the house they'd been occupying, after he'd made up some excuse to desert his friends again. It was the man they called Seeker who greeted him, and from the tone of his voice Cal thought he was happy to see him.

Ferus Meister wasn't present; the other three, the Keeper, the hooded man and the woman, looked at him with suspicion. The Seeker enjoined Cal to tell them the rest of the story, and how he had trapped Merryweather, got rid of the Sphinx and what had happened after his encounter with Merryweather in the forest; and Cal told him, editing out the story of his friends' involvement and adding some innocent lies about Hagrid being his idea.

"The boy still came here, though. You were to hinder him. What happened ?"

Cal lowered his gaze until all he could see of the Seeker were his hands, that seemed prematurely aged. He swallowed, mentally urging himself to think quickly, to invent something – but even lies failed him, and when he started speaking true words came out in a confused jumble of shame and rationalisations.

"There were curses... I was betrayed by an informant... He turned on me, attacked without regard for manners... no time..."

"So you fought," said the Seeker, "and it was not enough."

Cal straightened himself and looked at him, forcing his expression into not betraying any shame at the Seeker's words. There was a fleeting silence.

"It has happened to me, once," continued the stranger. "I swore then to find a way to make myself never lose again. The young boy that had beat me this day lived a mediocre life, and then died, whereas I became a far greater duellist than he could have hoped to be."

Very inspirational, thought Cal, but not relevant to me. The day I become a great duellist is the day Bella sits on the Wizengamot.

"There are techniques. Spells. We have not discussed rewarding you for your help yet: how would you like for me to help you in turn ?"

"Help me... fight ?"

"Help you win," he said, and his smile grew larger.

"Why ?" Clearly Cal figured in this group's motivations; but he had no idea how.

"You have what it takes."

The one they'd called Keeper spoke up in his turn. "The Ministry and all your sitting on their committees is one thing," he said. "But the world isn't changed around a table. It is changed in people's minds – like yours. If you have the will, you will want the power. This we can provide. You just need to listen to the Seeker."

"Now, now," cut the Seeker. "It is not the time to be boring our apprentice with ideology. He will learn later." He turned to Cal again, smiling. "Do you like this reward ?"

"Yes. I'll never be able to thank you enough, if it works," admitted Cal. "How do we... do that ?"

"Find a way to visit here two hours a week."

It was a tall order; busy with classes on weekdays, with tutoring on Sundays, and with his involvement with the W.Y.R.M. (Wizarding Youth Relations Meeting), Cal had difficulty fitting the Seeker's offer in his timetable. Motivated by his desire to show up Merryweather and his ilk, and by his father's intriguing words on the place of might in politics, he decided to come back on Sunday afternoons – making all of his Sunday an extended lesson.

Over the next few days, Cal spent more time doing homework than talking with his friends as usual; he did not even seek out Sarah to walk with her along the corridor with the painting of Ethelred the Erudite, and he brushed her off when she approached him in the library.

It lasted until the eleventh, when Cal was working in the common room past curfew, pondering an essay for his father's class on the subject of regulating the Dark Arts and their practitioners. It was an argumentative essay and Cal had chosen to present it from a pro-regulation angle, because everyone else in Slytherin was doing the other side – but Cal had such a precise idea of his ideal Ministry and where the Dark Arts, and people like the Blacks who were well-regarded in society despite their fondness for them, would fit in it, that it would have been a waste for it to remain in his dreams.

_Proponents for stricter laws on Dark Arts teaching, study or practice cite safety as their first concern. Indeed Dark Arts practitioners and their families suffer on average more magic-related accidents, live on average shorter lives, and comprise by themselves 40% of convicts. However, the example of other countries, where a list of Ministry-approved curses and Dark spells is maintained, and special permissions may be obtained for deeper study, boast a higher proportion of wizards admitting to knowing how to cast curses – but far less being negatively affected by them. Their Ministry's acknowledgment of it as a field of magic has led to much tighter control of the Dark Arts by the authorities which in turn seems to have diminished the quantity of Dark Arts-related crimes. We may wonder: are these countries the barbarian, hostile lands filled with iron-fisted Dark wizards apparent to British sensibilities, or proof that no ill intent can resist good governance ?_

_That awareness of the Dark Arts is now restricted to the select few who would brave the law to learn them only serve to bias the results more. In a world where Dark Arts are on the books, and bound by them, should we all fear them still ?_

Quite satisfied with his prose, Cal raised his head to think – only to see the clock about to strike midnight, and a small, hunched figure coming from the dorms, pressed against the walls.

"Sarah ?" he called. "It's past curfew, you know." She did not answer, but stopped walking. "Were you going to have a late feast in the kitchens ?"

"I was going to the Owlery."

"At this hour ?" Cal had forgotten his essay and the delight he had felt at working with such determination. Instead his politeness has resurfaced in the concern in his voice, and he found himself absorbed in the girl's odd demeanour.

"It's my birthday," she said in a single breath, and then she paused, as though she had wanted to hold on to it longer. "Or was until just now."

"So you wanted to get all your presents on the same day ? Might I escort you there, since I'm up ?"

"N-no," she said, and almost turned back to her dormitory; but Cal, who was quick to think when faced with upset people, found himself holding her arm in one hand and a small box of chocolates in another.

"Now, you wouldn't leave without my present, I hope !" he said cheerfully – and she blushed and looked almost grateful – and then she twisted a handful of brown hair around a finger and started talking very fast.

"That's- the thing is- it's actually my first present of the day- and my dad always said, a birthday's an important day and you've got to open my important parcel for the most important girl in the- oh, never mind- either way, so I thought if not this morning maybe he'd send it tonight, maybe late, so that I would wait and wait and feel so good when I got it- but it's past midnight now, too late, isn't it- why am I saying all that to you- I suppose your dad's always so busy, too, that's why, I thought you might tell me, if busy dads get forgetful or if it's just- that I'm too grown now to be so stupid about things that are so stup-"

"Do you know," said Cal, "you should send your father a very important owl and tell him his important parcel must have got lost on the way, and how distraught he must be over this. It's so important it can't wait, even, so you can write it now and we'll go send it. After all, much magic happens at midnight."

And magic did happen, by Cal's reckoning; because Sarah took his quill and parchment and they laughed as they composed the letter using as formal a language as possible, enquiring about Sarah's father's lost-post experiences, assuring him that they would inform him on reception of the misplaced package, and advising him to use Thestral post next time, and they laughed still as they embarked on a nightly adventure to the faraway Owlery; and they laughed some more once they were safely back in the common room, teachers and prefects none the wiser.

The parcel came no later than the next morning, at breakfast. Cal was comparing his essay with Bellatrix's ("It is a natural inclination for the most gifted among us to be drawn to the most arcane knowledge", she wrote, and later "[...] the criminalisation of natural curiosity can only alienate the most talented among us for the benefit of the common idiot [...]"; "Bella," said Cal, "you can't call people 'common idiots' in a school essay !"; "Well, it's true. Are they going to legislate the truth too ?") and put his quarrel on hold to watch Sarah's reaction.

She smiled at Cal briefly, and soon emerged from the box a necklace of fine silver and a note in a scroll, both of which Sarah pocketed, grinning.

"... and do remember that most curses are very dependent on intent, so that the Cheering Charm can actually see an use in duels by manipulating the Dark Wizard's emotional state in order to prevent him from casting... for Tuesday, I want a foot of parchment on the subject 'Unusual uses for basic spells' outlining how you would use a third-year-level or earlier charm, hex or jinx to severely hurt or otherwise incapacitate an enemy in combat. Originality will be rewarded. Now, please hand in this week's essay," said Cal's father.

Slytherins and Hufflepuffs queued up before their teacher's desks, parchment in hand. Bella, just before Cal, was re-reading phrases from hers out loud while waiting for her turn, and Lucius Malfoy, before her, made disparaging comments about her lack of finesse, which elicited giggles from his inseparable minion Crabbe.

"Before you leave," said the teacher once they'd all returned to their desks. "Has the writing of the essay brought some questions to your mind ?"

Penelope Worth's hand shot up. "I noticed during my research," she said primly, "that there were many laws passed against Dark Arts in general but no clear document describing what these Dark Arts were. Clearly anything to do with necromancy is one, and most curses requiring harmful intent. But what about Dark objects and enchantments ? I'm sure the only reason Knockturn is still in business is no one bothered to define how many of their wares are illegal."

"An excellent point, Miss Worth – Mr Malfoy, do you have a question ?"

"No, sir. I want to answer Worth's question, sir. You see, it would be very difficult to outlaw the Dark Arts completely without accidentally shedding light on how much of them are used by the Ministry itself," he said with a satisfied smile. "That would put lawmakers into a quandary, I suspect."

"The Ministry doesn't use Dark Arts !" protested Runcorn.

"Oh yes ? Read the papers lately ?"

"Mr Runcorn," warned Cal's father, and despite his soft tone of voice the class instantly grew quiet. "Do not speak out of turn."

The discussion continued so well and drew in so much of the class that Cal's father eventually announced they were quite welcome to individually take their questioning to his office, where he would have many interesting books to lend them, and the lesson ended in a restless atmosphere. When he finally walked out of the room, Sarah stood there waiting; as he stopped to talk to her, Rodolphus winked at him and silently led Bellatrix and Andromeda to go on without him.

"Liked your present ?" he asked, since she didn't seem too eager to start the conversation.

She nodded, and took out the necklace from beneath her clothing. "Take it in your hand," she said.

"What ?"

"The pendant. Take it in your hand."

It was heart-shaped and small, and exactly the kind of gift appropriate for a fourteen-year-old girl on first sight. But when Cal held it, he soon felt his palm warming, and – yes – a pulse animate the pendant, so that it almost dug into his skin.

"What's this !"

"It's like a Sneakoscope," said Sarah. "When dangerous people are near, it starts beating. The nearer and more immediate the danger, the faster the pulse. It's made with a real charmed ventricle, you know ? Hard to obtain, and far more subtle than a Foe-Glass, for example. I don't know why Dad gave it to me, though – it's hardly going to see any use at Hogwarts."

Cal could all of a sudden see Worth's point very well. Doubtless with better laws a heart beating on its own thanks to the use of a charmed human ventricle wouldn't merely be 'hard' to obtain.

"It's a great gift-"

"Thank you," she said quickly. "For the letter."

"That was noth-"

"And." She paused. "- tomorrow's an Hogsmeade week-end."

Was it ? Now that put Cal's plans for his duelling lessons in a different context.

"And I was wondering," Sarah said, "well – I could go with you. We could explore like usual but outside. And talk. If you like."

Cal was about to tell her he needed to ask his friends whether they would mind her coming along, though himself had no objection; but then he remembered the next day was Valentine's Day, and his friends very likely to desert him for the greener pastures of staring at someone's face for hours on end in Madame Puddifoot's. So he agreed, and took his leave just as the fourth year Ravenclaws and Slytherins came in for the next Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson.

Sarah showed herself to be far more chatty at Hogsmeade, telling Cal all about her dad's collection of rare items, her growing distaste for repetitive History of Magic schoolwork and her interest in the Hufflepuffs' Defence club.

"... they feel we're going to learn to defend ourselves sooner rather than later, with what's in the papers recently," she said as they walked along a dirt road a short way from the village, checking back for nosy chaperones on occasion.

"Defence class seems to be handling that well, though. In my year we've seen more spells than in all other classes combined, and we certainly don't stick to the Ministry's material."

"They say there's too much Dark Arts and not enough cooperation in Defence," said Sarah. "That your dad just pits everybody against everybody else and tells them to win. They think well-managed numbers get the advantage more easily."

"We're not Muggles, though. We don't have numbers."

"But it's not the Muggles we're fighting, is it ?"

"It could be. There were Muggles involved in the Dark Lord's fight in the war."

Sarah looked away and fell silent. After a short while she laid her hand on Cal's arm. "Hm ?"

"Over there," she said. "There's a spot under that tree that's wholly free of snow."

She led Cal in its direction, likely meaning to take advantage of the rare opportunity to sit in the grass in winter. Soon they had to stop and hide: already two people were sitting in the tiny patch of spring, a boy and a girl, and Cal recognised Tonks and Andromeda. He bit his lip not to gasp in surprise.

Andromeda had laid her hat next to her, and between them was some sort of box from which they ate confectionery.

"... that ridiculous Dark Arts essay... and my sister... _oh_ Sir, how _unfair_ that we can't learn all of magic ! Sir, would that we weren't so restrained in our desires ! ... well if _she's_ restrained, I'm the Queen-"

Tonks sniggered. "But at least," he said more seriously, "you have a sister here. I can't even write to my family... owls aren't very discreet in the city..."

"If you think I'd get lonely without Bella, think again. She's just as much of a suck-up at home. Cal and Cissy do, too, but not to that extent. Father, Andie thinks it's boring, but _I _shall go to Aunt Walburga's with you," she mimicked again.

This time Tonks didn't even smile. "But she's safe," he insisted. "All those people who've been dying over the past few months were someone's family. Someone's _Muggle_ family."

There was a long silence, and Cal turned to Sarah, who was crouched next to him behind a snow-covered bush, almost leaning on his shoulder. "I'm sorry," he told her. "Would you rather we went to the Three Broomsticks or something like that ?"

She didn't move. "N-no – I don't mind, really."

Beneath the tree Tonks and Andie had restarted their conversation, now sitting close together with Andie's arm around his shoulders and the box of sweets in her lap – and this worried Cal almost as much as what they actually said.

"... but it isn't so bad," she said. "The situation. We'll catch the Dark Lord, it'll all end..."

"D'you know what Amelia told me ? Her mum's an Auror, and she's said they tried to assassinate the PM three weeks ago. An important Muggle, heavily guarded, known to the Ministry – and he was almost mauled by a werewolf right under their noses."

"That's terrible !"

"And the thing is – according to Amelia it wasn't the Dark Lord. They left a note."

"Maybe he's trying to throw them off the trail ?"

"Maybe," said Tonks glumly. "Or maybe there are people around here who hate Muggles more than the Dark Lord ever did. Christ, 'Dromeda, d'you _hear_ your sister talking sometimes ?"

"I know -"

"And Cal isn't much better. Treated me like I'd been a good lackey last time. As for the little kid – I don't think she knows I exist. Or she fakes it pretty well."

"They're a bit snobbish -"

"A _bit_ ?"

Andromeda edged closer to him and lowered her head. Why did his opinion matter so much, anyway ? Just who's he to judge, Cal wondered.

"My family'll eventually learn," said Andromeda. "They just – they've never needed to – but now that the world's what it is, they'll have to see it. And perhaps they'll understand, like your parents understood magic."

Tonks took out his arm from around her. "There's trouble brewing, Andromeda,"he said. "And _perhaps_ I won't be here long enough to see it stop. Your family's safe, and you with them. Think about it."

"How c-" she started, but then she changed her mind. "You _could_ contact your parents, you know," she said in a more conspiratorial tone.

"Pardon ?"

"There's a Muggle village farther across the fields. I suppose they have a post office."

"Or a telephone," said Tonks more excited, and Cal had no idea what he was talking about. "Andromeda, you're a genius."

"Does that mean you forgive me for having a harpy for a sister ?"

"Well, no one exactly chooses who they're born to, do they ?"

* * *

><p>Tiberius ran along the corridor swearing under his breath, apologising when Adam's wife passed him by with a look of disapproval. He had been detained at work – and this was such a bad day for it too – the burning pain in his arm attested to it. In the living room everyone sat in a circle, around the fireplace from which a familar face emerged.<p>

It was almost entrancing, mused Tiberius, how even time had no power over him, and he looked just as he always had.

"I hope you do not intend to be late once our success is ensured," said the disembodied head of their master in a cold voice. "I might be tempted to take as a deliberate slight."

"Oh no, my Lord," said Tiberius. "It's the first time this decade – but they're getting suspicious, at the Ministry, as expected... if Greyback hadn't failed..."

"I had a talk with the werewolf," said their master. "He now knows of my distaste for failure... as you do. But we have more pressing matters – if you would take your seat, right there -" and he pointed to a spot on the floor between Adam and Janus, exactly the width of his folded legs.

When Tiberius did so, the fireplace roared, and their master now stood all his height in it, tall and wreathed in flame that seemed to have no effect on him. He stepped within the circle and addressed them:

"Friends and trusted allies," he said. "The consequences of our recent setback are very worrisome indeed. I suggest we keep the Ministry occupied with smaller fray. A valued informant," and he nodded in Janus' direction, "has provided us with a list of the – still mercifully rare – Mudbloods in Ministry employ." He paused. "What a shame, isn't it, that the governance of our people is left to strangers, when instead they could hire your brothers and sisters and children ?" Sounds of agreement resonated in the room. "I say," said their master, pausing for effect, "that we give them a good _incentive_ to go home. What say you ?"

"Yes, my Lord !" exclaimed Tiberius, followed by a few people around him.

"That's a very mild response to the man who does so much for your children's future," commented their master.

"Yes, my Lord !" resonated louder from all corners of the room – and at once Tiberius was sixteen again, and there were only six or seven of them shouting so, in their dormitory late at night; and in those shouts was a promise, that soon, very soon, these six or seven schoolboys would be heroes themselves to those to come, show them a way, and be heard; and he was taken back to the present, it was thirty years later almost, and their shouts were echoed by two dozen new voices; and at no other time did Tiberius feel so alive. It was a transporting feeling; he wished it to last forever.


	7. Offence and Defence

**Chapter 7**

**Offence and Defence**

The pub was bristling with activity, in great part due to a large group at a corner table, none of them regulars, who seemed in the middle of some sort of organised meeting. One of them was dressed oddly, in a long garment like a judge's; the others wore more practical if unfashionable clothing, and they made a strange assortment with shirts next to blue-jeans and evening dresses.

"... it was my mother first," said the oddly-dressed one. "She was tending to her garden, but the neighbours didn't see anything. No one had ever known... she didn't understand me, much, when I talked about my job, but I knew she was proud. And yet that's where it got her..." He stopped to take a gulp from his mug.

"They won't stop," said a woman with a wide-brimmed hat. "Your mother, my brothers, Dick's little niece that was just two... that's just the beginning, Eustace, you know this."

"All too well. And I don't understand why nobody's doing anything. I wrote up a piece for the Prophet two weeks ago. Complete silence."

"I'm sure their readers care about what's happening here," said a younger man. "It's not happening to us, so it wouldn't be of any use to anybody. They'd think your mother put her nose where she shouldn't have, heh heh heh, 'how stupid can they really be'."

"But it _is_ happening to us, Phil," interjected the woman. "Who do you think they're getting at ? None of the 'accidents' have been randoms."

"Well, I need to get back to work," said Eustace, finishing his drink as fast as he could. "Don't want them smelling something's off. Who knows who reads the records."

"So what are we doing ?" asked the woman. "Just carry on until it ends, at least for us ?"

"We've got to raise the alarm," argued Phil. "Maybe not fight but at least... stand. Do something."

"There aren't many alarms I can raise," said Eustace. "It was hard enough getting that job as it was. I'm not losing it over some lost cause-"

"Better to wait until they come for _your_ life instead," snorted Phil.

"... I'll see what I can do."

* * *

><p>Mr Lestrange slammed his palms on the table. "And I take it the parents don't figure in your outreach program ?"<p>

Cal, who had imperceptibly recoiled at the noise of his hands hitting the dark wood, became very absorbed in his notes. To date, the meeting had gone well; he had enjoyed being introduced to the witch in charge, Madam Bletchley, though her junior assistant, Madam Umbridge, had seemed under the impression that Cal was six years old, and by no means nearly an adult. The first four points were discussed very summarily. Cal tried to have an intervention on the question of 'the establishment of a Ministry Committee on the regulation of youth activities', but time ran out, and the motion was passed, without his having a turn.

On the matter of information – and how best to inform children of the direction of the Wizarding World, and get them involved in matters of Secrecy as early as possible, which, Cal knew, was directly linked to cutting off a possible source of recruits for the Dark Lord, opinions were more divided.

"Mr Lestrange," said Madam Umbridge smiling and toying with her pink quill, "is it reasonable to expect every parent to know as much on matters of state as the Ministry ? Aren't we far better placed to undertake the introduction of-" she turned to Cal -"our charming little children to their world than any single wizard ?"

"My sons have known about the importance of Secrecy since we've known they were wizards !" said Mr Lestrange, whose face was reddening. "They know exactly which side they are on ! They have no need, nor time, to be subjected to inane classes on 'civic duty'. I have been supervising their education closely myself, as good fathers do, and I don't intend for them to suffer the company of the children of all the bad fathers in Britain !"

Mr Lestrange had screamed the last words almost directly in Madam Umbridge's face, which was directly across the table from him; she had remained perfectly still, an expression of shock onto her features.

"Tiberius," said Madam Bletchley, drawing her wand and forcing him back in his seat. "You were invited to provide the opinion of the community, not to harass my assistant. Any more measured opinions ?"

Cal raised his wand. Madam Umbridge let out a cough, and while the table briefly looked at her, Madam Bletchley's eyes remained on him.

"I think," said Cal, "that the Ministry should have some sort of event for us to be listened to more. I know there was a Youth Representative with the Wizengamot a while back, but youth are far too different from one another now. We each have our idea of a Wizarding future, and I believe the Ministry would be enriched by a plethora of ideas to choose from." There were discreet chuckles around the table.

"Excuse me," pointed out Madam Umbridge, still handling her quill. "I am sure this was merely a bad turn of phrase, and not the dear boy's intention, but do the Ministry themselves not have ideas, as he said ? Besides," and she smiled up to Madam Bletchley, who made a sign for her to go on, "it is my understanding that ideas are best left to they who can put them into practice."

"It would be an unwise move in our time to disenfranchise our youth, Madam Umbridge," said a grey-haired man four seats from Mr Lestrange. "I propose a contest. The children write a little piece on some of the current events, the best ones get to speak on a special day and advise the Ministry on a question of their choosing."

"Oh. If you say so, Mr Ogden."

"I think that's an excellent idea," piped up the woman next to Ogden.

Cal was suddenly taken by a very vivid daydream – it was an audience, old and young people arranged in a circle around a desk, and Cal himself stood on that desk and read from parchment. In the daydream the thoughts of his audience floated around, and he could hear and feel them; they were listening much like young Sarah did when he talked, much like all his friends and family did with his father; the thoughts wrapped themselves around his words to take their shape and meaning, and all thoughts were as one, in one, following a structure like the paragraphs in his essay, and this was Cal's world, and it was peaceful and safe.

That motion was passed, and at three-thirty, which was three hours later than scheduled, and meant Cal had missed double Potions as well as Divination, the people around the circle started to rise and disappear with a familiar 'pop'. There was no Apparating in Hogwarts, and Cal still had a year to go before he could apply for a licence: for about ten minutes he delayed his departure, looking around, waiting for an adult to notice and help him.

But the adults were well unaware, and, after Madam Umbridge took a last look at him, tapped Madam Bletchley's arm and started talking, before the both of them left in turn, Cal's anxiety rose anew. It had been Madam Bletchley that had arranged for him to be taken to the conference-room in the Ministry, and now he was left without a way back. He might be able to talk the people from Network Regulation into giving him an emergency Floo call – Cygnus was at work, of course, and Dru might not be home either, she had mentioned visiting Walburga often on afternoons recently. If there was a home Cal was not calling, it was Mr Black's; from Mr Black's growing paranoia to Sirius's insolence to Regulus's cold condescension to everything about the lady of the house, the prospect was more daunting than promising.

His father taught, and so did Professor Slughorn. Mr Lestrange had left in haste; there was another friend of his father's at the Ministry, Mr Rosier, but Cal had only seen him in passing. For a short spell Cal mused that the Seeker, his newfound teacher of Defence and Dark Arts, the man who taught Cal to fight and to win, might come and save him, but it was a preposterous idea, and soon out of Cal's mind.

And in his anxiety, and the loss of focus on the rest of the world that characterised it, Cal was surprised when he heard a familiar voice coming from the conference-room's fireplace. It was their Headmaster's, and rather than his usual, cheerful tone his speech was solemn.

"I do not trust the Floo, Mark, not for this. Can you not come in ?"

Mark Waffling looked away from the fireplace, and Cal scurried under the table not to be seen. It was a wooden table about the height of the Ministry's desks, and fitting a healthy boy of Cal's height under it was difficult: his feet poked out from under a chair, and his head was inclined so that he could not see Waffling or the Headmaster.

"It's difficult. I'd rather not be seen involved in -"

"Involved in my school or my causes again," said the Headmaster, and Waffling let out a small noise. "I understand. I cannot ask you to put yours in danger again, if you do not wish to – but, mark my words, you will not be safer at the Ministry than at my school for very long."

"I'm sorry, Albus. I'm really sorry, and I hope you will have what you need, but I can't -"

"Do the Ministry's chairs usually have feet ?"

"I'm sorry ?"

Cal did not like the turn of the conversation at all, and he tried to bring his knees back against his chest, a risky move over the course of which he hit his shoulder against the tabletop, and unwittingly cried out in pain.

There was an intense pause during which Cal listened to the slightest falling footstep, the softest breath, and the overwhelming sound of his own heartbeat, until at last, he felt a large hand grab his arm.

"Callidus ?"

"Mr Waffling !" apologised Cal as sincerely as he could. "Cal, if you please. I hope not to have been too much of a disturbance – I was here for the last meeting, the W.Y.R.M. one, and I hadn't realised the room was booked afterwards."

"Mr Burke," said the Headmaster. "Shouldn't you be in class ? Fifth-year Slytherins are currently in Filius's care, I believe."

Cal knelt down to better face the Headmaster. "It was my mistake, Professor. My meeting went slightly over schedule, and I hadn't thought to plan my journey back."

The Headmaster had this way of examining students that made it look like he could guess any trace of wrongdoing: while Cal hardly saw him, he was not one to be lied to.

"Cal is a delightful child," Mr Waffling informed the Headmaster. "I've had the pleasure of working with Madam Burke, and there is no doubt his willingness to help and inquisitive nature run in the family." At this the Headmaster chuckled, which sounded rather off – it was not the way he laughed at his own jokes or the professors' wordplay. "Truly," continued Waffling, and Cal suddenly realised where the praise had come from, "he is a wish come true. It might be very conspicuous for me to enter Hogwarts, Albus, but not for one of your very own students, just coming back from doing his duty to society."

"I entreat you to think further, Mark – children are the soul of a better future, not the materials our idea of this future should be carved in. I do not believe -"

"I have thought enough !" called Waffling, who seemed adamant to get out of whatever it was he ought to be doing for the Headmaster. "I will bring you to Hogsmeade, boy – but only if then you'll carry this message Albus Dumbledore would not hear from me earlier."

The Headmaster's voice grew louder. "It could be a very unwise idea, Mark."

But Waffling was not listening. As soon as Cal had tentatively agreed, the older wizard had caught hold of his arm; with a last "Mark !" from the Headmaster, and a sinking feeling in Cal's stomach, they both Disapparated.

The Hog's Head had retained its position as the place one went to when one would rather not be found. Waffling shook Cal's hand, twitching his wand in his sleeve-pocket, and the Headmaster's letter was transferred to him. With no more farewell, Waffling turned to nod at the bartender, an older man with long hair, and, upon receiving a nod back, vanished into thin air.

Imbued with a sense of importance thanks to his mission, Cal resolved to take the secret passage back. Certainly Merryweather and a few of the children knew of it, but at least no teacher would be able to pinpoint the hour of his return – and the extent of his tardiness – and Cal might escape punishment.

Cal emerged from the narrow corridor exhausted. The letter was still firmly secured in his robe-pocket, and his hand remembered Mark's strong parting grip; but he felt a weight on his feet he had a hard time believing was his own, and thought of nothing more than getting to his bed – resting – perhaps taunting the girls with the idea that he now had an involvement in the world that surpassed theirs – though it would be a mistake, it would anger them, and cause rifts and loud words.

He barely returned the Nymph's greeting, waved at his own reflection in his distraction, and rounded the corner as fast as he could – only to be greeted by his father.

"You weren't at the gate."

Cal's father was standing with a book in hand and another hand against the wall, as though he was waiting.

"I was late," said Cal, taking advantage of his tiredness to avoid his gaze. "I'm glad to have made it here."

"I will see you in my office for a few moments," said his father, already turning and walking, and Cal could only follow. "I have been informed you missed Flitwick's lesson, and I thought I might see you once my own class had finished."

"I need to see the Headmaster," said Cal, and at this Cal's father looked back at him, straight in the eyes. Cal felt the urge to tell everything and let his father handle it as he so often did, enough with the problems and secrets, but thought back to his daydream and to Waffling's discussion with his mother, and resolved to become himself the sort of man he perceived his father to be; and so he said nothing.

"You need a good meal and the company of your friends." It stood to reason that his father would be concerned for him. Perhaps this, too, was wishful thinking.

"Yes, Father. May I go to see the Headmaster now ?"

"Why don't you tell me whatever it is the Ministry wants to tell him now," he said, faintly smiling. "He does not usually receive students, and I'm sure he will make time for me. Messages – gifts – insults – all that you've got now I shall bring to him for you, if you like. Dumbledore doesn't take well to being told not everything goes his way."

If that was true, Cal's challenge was greater than he thought. But nevertheless he held his ground – he had been asked to see the Headmaster, and only him, and if the Headmaster was so likely to judge or reject him, at least he would know Cal, and remember him – and you got far by being known and remembered.

"I'll heed the warning. But I'd rather you brought all of me to him, if it's not too much trouble. He'll want to know why I wasn't in class, wouldn't he ?"

Cal's father grew silent, and brought his hands closer to himself, as though preparing for something – but what he would have said next remained a mystery, because the Headmaster himself strolled down the corridor in their direction, and greeted them both.

"I wish to apologise for my late return, Headmaster -"

"No need, Mr Burke. Now if you will wait for me in my office – up three flights of stairs, right after Ulric the Oddball, behind the statue, and I have a fondness for Honeyduke's newest delicacies, I hope you have tried them – I shall be with you shortly."

Cal hesitated; when he made for the stairs, his father extended his hand to request him to stop, and he stayed there frozen as if from a spell.

"My son has missed hours worth of classes, Dumbledore," he explained. "Does he not deserve to be taught these lessons and made to retain them ?"

"His Head of House will see to that, Tom, as I'm sure you remember him doing for years now. You have enough work yourself, I believe."

For half a second Cal thought his father might answer – but instead he looked at the Headmaster more angrily that Cal had ever witnessed, and, saying only that he dared not contradict his employer, composed his expression and left.

During all of their walk to the Headmaster's office, Cal dared not look at the older wizard; and only after he entered the wide room decorated with portraits did he talk, to greet his ancestor: once-Headmaster Phineas Nigellus Black.

"Straight, boy !" commanded the portrait. "Watch that back ! Whose blood runs in you, mine or some defeated, common peasant's ?"

"Phineas," said the Headmaster, but Phineas Nigellus Black had fallen back into slumber in his gold frame.

Cal handed the Headmaster his parchment; he unwrapped it, and glanced over it before swiftly placing it out of Cal's view.

"Thank you, Mr Burke." The Headmaster's striking blue eyes met Cal's, who noticed their expression was less focused, softer than in the fireplace, or in the corridor with his father. "It would be wise, in the future, not to find yourself lost under a table again. It is quite a strange place to be lost in, and it has a very annoying way of bringing to us adventures we may not like. Don't you think ?"

"Yes, Headmaster." Cal nodded in deference and turned to leave, but not before realising that the advice was less a threat than a promise. "Though I've heard surviving adventures made wiser wizards than avoiding them." It was not Cal's opinion – but it was the Sorting Hat's, and it had been Godric Gryffindor's, and from the rumours it was likely Dumbledore's. In his frame, Phineas chuckled; but it was the Headmaster's reaction that Cal was looking for, and it never came.

Cal hurried down to bed after dinner and homework, both of which had him absorbed and oblivious to his surroundings. As he lay in the dark still unsure how he ought to feel after such a day, he heard a ruffling sound, and arose to the whispers of Rodolphus's voice.

"So is that what's been on your mind ?"

"I'm sorry ?"

Rodolphus advanced nearer, until eventually he was sitting on Cal's bed.

"The past weeks," he said. "When you left, when you had your thoughts elsewhere. You were planning this thing with Dumbledore, weren't you ?"

Cal couldn't see his friend's expression in the dark, but his tone sounded accusatory, strangely like his father's had been in the meeting.

"I've never planned anything with Dumbledore."

"You know we're friends, aren't we ?" said Rodolphus. "I won't tell. I'll understand. But, my father has told me quite a few things about Dumbledore. You don't want to get in that, Cal, you really don't. What he'll have you do... what he wants to take from all of us... Father tells me nearly everything," he said quickly. "Dumbledore's dangerous. They all are."

Of course Rodolphus didn't know about the Seeker, and Cal's real preoccupations, though he seemed to have noticed his distance – distance Rodolphus himself had started taking early in the year.

"Many people seem to be dangerous nowadays," argued Cal. "The Dark Lord who could be everywhere -"

The attacks, Cal remembered, weren't at all the Dark Lord's doing after all, but how much Rodolphus knew about it was unclear, and he listened to his friend's reaction with attention.

Rodolphus grew silent for longer than expected. "The Dark Lord," he said at last. "Yes."

"With all the attacks, of course," volunteered Cal. "They aren't going to stop. And Hogwarts -"

"Yes," said his friend slowly. "Yes, there's danger in Hogwarts."

Over the course of the month of March, this confidence done him in the dark by the best friend of his school years dug its way into Cal's mind. In the dark deeds in the papers, in the Defence essays he wrote, in the designs of his closest friends, in the dreams he had at night; everywhere this danger seemed to be spelled, and Cal's worries and waffling over politics took a toll on his social life.

The Seeker's lessons were paying off: at the end of each, humiliated and afraid and imbued with renewed fervour in his despair, he felt a greater might awake in him, and every time his mind grew sharper, his spells fiercer, until he won once.

That day came near the end of the month; the next, in his father's office at the familiar large desk, Cal rose up and attacked without prompting. Cal's father turned to look in his eyes; for the first time he turned away.

It was as though the high bookcases and wide desk of the office had lost whichever power had emanated from them, for Cal no longer felt lost, and, perhaps for the first time, thought this room, with all its wood, paper, and ageless smell, looked more restrictive than imposing.

"An excellent application of the lesson on the impact of surprise, Callidus," said his father. He stretched his mouth into a smile, and Cal could make out faint wrinkles denting his angular face.

Cal gathered his school supplies, and prepared to take his leave, but his father made him stay. Cal made sure to stand straight and look determined when his father started speaking.

"I'm sure you still read the news," he said lightly. "Are you scared ?"

Nothing but the truth. "Yes."

"Then remember," he said, his voice lowering, "who you can trust. There is no need to bear alone any... secret. Not for you."

Cal did not think his lessons with the Seeker were such an important secret. First, he didn't trust him like he did his father, or Bellatrix and Andromeda. Second – second was a little vain – he wasn't displeased that they all imputed his recent advances in duelling to a previously hidden natural talent. And then Cal remembered the conversation between Waffling and Dumbledore, and that was a secret, and one that caused a slight wringing in his stomach whenever he crossed his father's eyes. He promised himself that, if his father was pleased with his Defence improvement, he would tell. It could be a conspiracy, like Rodolphus seemed to think.

When Cal met the Seeker the next time, he was in high spirits, and though he tried to keep his head high, his demeanour serious, there was in the corner of a smile, in the biting of a lip, in the swish of a wand as many signs of his newfound confidence, and it wasn't long before the Seeker laughed, calling him to his side.

"So, Cal, it seems I kept my end of the promise. I taught you to win."

Cal inclined his head.

"However," pursued the Seeker, "I might have been a little negligent here and there. That is, I might have forgotten to inform you of something."

The Seeker's fellows all looked to each other then, exchanging half-smiles.

"You like asking questions," mused the Seeker. "You asked about my name. You asked what it is I seek. Is the answer still of interest to you ?"

At first Cal didn't answer, but the woman cut the silence. "Come on ! That's an easy question," she said. Beside her, the man they'd called Keeper frowned and whispered something in her ear, but she swatted him away. "Of course he's old enough. Kids aren't sheep. They actually think -"

"Enough," said the Seeker. "Cal ?"

"Yes," said Cal. "Why not."

"Perfect !"

The Seeker laughed and made a gesture with his hands, after which all the other wizards presents laughed. The Keeper's laugh was the least natural of all.

"Cal," said the Seeker more somberly. "Have you any idea what is happening in the world ?"

"Well, someone's running out and spreading mayhem," said Cal. "Probably to frighten people -"

"And who is that someone acting in the name of ?"

"People say it's the Dark Lord, but I imagine they're lying," said Cal.

"Clever boy !" This time, though the Seeker's tone grew happier, none of the others reacted.

"Why," continued the Seeker, "do you believe they lie ?"

"Secrecy," answered Cal without hesitation. "The Muggles can't be informed what's what."

"A pity, you don't think ? Surely _they_ could track their own dead, and free up our resources."

Cal recoiled. "It's too dangerous," he said. He was hesitant to continue, because he knew well too keep his more contested opinions to himself, but the look of anticipation in the Seeker's piercing eyes convinced him. "They are many. If they knew... what's the difference to them between a good wizard and the Dark Lord ? They would turn after us all, and we would have no place to live any longer. We are already hidden, caged almost because of them. Secrecy is our only protection."

"Not might ?" interrupted the woman.

"Why would they respect it ?"

"Because," said the Seeker, "it would be in their best interest. They would be safe. The good wizards would protect the Muggles; in exchange nothing of their lands, customs or minds would be unknown to us. They would be proud to find wizards among their children; prouder still to send them there."

"Sounds like Dumbledore's plan," commented Cal before he could help it. He had no idea what the Seeker knew of Dumbledore, but he supposed the information wasn't too dangerous.

The Seeker laughed. "Perhaps it does."

"A way to end secrecy," said Cal. "Is that what you seek ?"

"That is only the beginning," commented the Keeper. "We have a whole new order planned."

"And you are here," interjected the woman, "to be part of it."

Cal was flattered. It sounded even more exciting than the W.Y.R.M.; even more in line with what all his friends claimed they wanted to do: a whole new world, as it should be, and the possibility to fight for it instead of talking. The Seeker sounded like he knew his business.

* * *

><p>Albus Dumbledore crossed out another name.<p>

Aside from those, like Mark, who had already been victims themselves, it was difficult to find potential allies in the Ministry; more difficult still was to know who to approach, when so many could be spies. Under the heading 'Department of Mysteries' were no names, and Mark had only written 'unknown' in large letters across the page.

On Albus's desk were many letters; most bore unwelcome news. The Supreme Mugwump had refused his request to set up a delegation to the giants, and perhaps to the goblins, again citing that Albus was shifting blame. Albus thought of that guilt, and then of Gellert: he surprised himself by wondering where he truly was, and if the Dementors had managed to catch and steal the life out of him at last. Shamefully, Albus found himself sorry for the once-Dark Lord, and disgusted at his countrymen, if that was the case.

Albus ran a long, weary finger across the list. In the section entitled 'Misuse of Magic Office' all names were crossed out – save for one. Eustace Wendell, he read. A Muggleborn. Albus remembered seeing him only once or twice, never with any coworkers, his brand-new robes always perfectly tied. There was a note from Mark, as usual, next to the name. 'Never takes his lunch in the cafeteria', it read.

Well, Eustace Wendell, thought Albus. Let us have lunch together next time.


End file.
